One Day
by TheReturned
Summary: AU. Follows the ever-changing friendship and eventual romance of John and Sherlock, who first meet aged 5 at school on September 14th. Where are they on this same date each year? How has their relationship progressed? Story spans 30 years of their lives, please read A/N in chapter one. Eventual Johnlock & Mollstrade. (Updated Summary) (Now Complete)
1. Chapter 1

**Another Johnlock idea of mine, sort of based on the idea of One Day by David Nicholls (which I do not own, obviously, nor do I own Sherlock) but not the same storyline idea, and the years will go in sequence (although I might miss out a couple of years, but it won't bounce around like the novel does). Essentially this will follow John & Sherlock from childhood into "present day" (say late 30s, although I might change that depending on how the story goes). It won't always be one chapter per year, there might be more than one year in each chapter (there certainly will be in the beginning).**

**This fanfic is AU due to the boys meeting at a young age, and John & Sherlock being the same age (John still a bit older, but in the same school year). **

**For those of you following/waiting for an update for "Reading John", I think I am going to write an epilogue for it but I need to get it right. So I'm writing this to keep my inspiration flowing.**

**Sorry for the essay, and happy reading! Remember, reviews/favourites/etc keep me happy :)**

_September 14th, 1981_

A ball landed at his feet, shaking him out of his trance. He glanced up in the direction that it had clearly come from, and noted the small, shy looking boy gazing at him from a few feet away. There was a group of boys behind him, huddled together and watching him, clearly waiting to get the ball back.

"Want to play?" the sandy-haired child asked, nodding at the ball currently resting in between his feet.

He shook his head slightly, his dark curls waving into his face, before passing the ball back to him surprisingly accurately with a kick of his left foot. "No thanks." Always be polite, that's what Mummy had said. You'll make friends if you're polite.

Not that he wanted friends.

"What are you doing?" asked the insistent child. He noticed that this boy had passed the ball back to his group of friends and wasn't leaving him alone.

He sighed and fixed him with a stare, too serious for his very young age. Those eyes belonged to a weary mother, or a wise old man, not a privileged five year old.

"Just sitting here."

The boy nodded, then nervously began to approach him. "Looks like fun. Can I play?"

"I'm not playing," he retorted. "I'm... just sitting here. Thinking." He briefly wondered how long was left of lunch time before the bell would ring and he could get away from this mind-numbing conversation.

The boy had reached the bench and cautiously sat beside him, but there was a small smile on his face, as if he'd achieved some monumentous victory. He'd braved the wolf and not been bitten. He hadn't even been barked at. Not really.

"I'm John," he said, staring out in front of him, mimicking his vacant gaze. "What's your name?"

Another sigh. The boy must know his name. He knew they were in the same class, he recognised him. An attempt to make friends, quite clearly, get him to talk. But for some reason, he deigned to respond to John. He knew that the other kids had avoided him. Something about him made them nervous, and he felt almost grateful that this boy seemed to be making a genuine effort, however pointless in the long run.

"Sherlock Holmes."

_September 14th, 1982_

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"No, I've never played 'Hide'n'Seek' before," he reiterated. John looked at him as if he had grown a third ear.

"But it's... how can you not have played it before? It's an amazing game!" John exclaimed. "Don't you play games at your house with your parents? Or with Mycroft?"

Sherlock snorted. "My parents are always busy. My Nanny doesn't do games. She normally tells me to go and read something or do a jigsaw. Mycroft..." Sherlock paused, feeling suddenly somewhat sad. "Mycroft is busy too."

John's eyes opened wide, and then that grin appeared readily on his lips. "It's okay Sherlock. I'll show you how."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I might never have played it, but I think I understand, John. Someone hides, the other one seeks?"

"Well... yeah," John admitted. "You have to count, to give me time to hide."

"But I want to hide," said Sherlock, sticking out his bottom lip, suddenly in a petulant mood. He knew, too, that John would give in immediately and let him hide. Especially as he was, for once, showing a vague keenness to actually do something that John wanted to do, to indulge him in playing a game.

He wasn't wrong.

"Okay, okay. You hide. But nowhere too hard," John pleaded. "And Mum says not to leave the house. So don't hide in the garden or out on the street."

Sherlock nodded, and waited until John turned to start counting, before peeling off his coat and dumping it, along with his school book bag, on the armchair in John's living room. He quietly and carefully snuck out of the room, checking first that John wasn't peeping, and then disappeared into the kitchen. He could smell the lasagne that John's mum was preparing, and couldn't help the little smile that bubbled up. This house was a proper family home, somewhere where kids could happily play, that smelled of lovely homely smells like baking bread and soft motherly perfume, and Sherlock would get more cuddles here, from John's mum, than he ever did in his own, cold house. He came here as often as he could, pretending that the warmth and jollity sickened him, but even John knew the truth. John's parents were fond of the strange little dark-haired boy that John had become devoted to over the past year, and, having met Sherlock's parents several times and sometimes seeing them when Sherlock was picked up or dropped off (though it was normally the Nanny who did such tasks), they had realised how much the boy needed a little love in his life. They were more than willing to provide it.

John's mother appeared from the back garden, and smiled kindly at Sherlock. "Looking for a place to hide, love?" she asked. "I can always secrete you in a cupboard if you want."

Sherlock shook his head, muttering a thanks. It was too obvious, especially if John's mother had to act completely innocent when John appeared, looking for him. He liked her, but he didn't put much faith in her skills as a master of deceit. He quickly nipped back into the hall and padded up the stairs, noticing that John's bedroom door was slightly ajar. Creeping in, he glanced up at the large window, complete with a deep windowsill and dark curtains. He bit his lip, weighing up his options, knowing that John would have finished counting by now and be on the prowl. He didn't have many other choices, so slipped behind the curtain, crouched down low, hoping the darkness of the curtain wouldn't give away his outline when John inevitably came in, and waited, as silent as a mouse.

Eventually he heard John's footsteps rattling up the staircase. He didn't come into the room immediately, first apparently checking the bathroom. Sherlock could hear him move around, checking in the shower, in the bath, and then eventually coming through to his own room. He could sense him moving around, checking under the bed and looking in his wardrobes, before exhaling.

"Sheeerllooooock! Where are you? I give up," he exclaimed, flopping on his bed that was situated right next to the windowsill where Sherlock was hiding. Grinning to himself, Sherlock flung open the curtain and, before John had time to react, leapt on his friend and squealed in rare delight.

John's mum came rushing to the bottom of the stairs when she heard the commotion, then stopped and smiled to herself as she heard the peals of laughter ringing across the upstairs landing. It was a sound she could never tire of hearing from her son, and she was delighted to hear the same breathy laugh from his friend. That boy definitely needed more fun in his life.

_September 14th, 1986_

"They're always holding hands," Eric Watson mused to his wife, the pair of them sitting on the park bench, watching John and Sherlock walking towards the swings hand in hand, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Have you noticed?"

Jane turned to her husband and pulled a face. "Eric, they're ten," she said, chiding him. "It's sweet, and it doesn't mean anything at all. I've never seen two children so close. Such good friends."

Eric nodded, agreeing with his wife, but a slight worry niggled in his head. "You don't suppose they'll still be like that when they start secondary school next year, do you?" he asked.

There was a silence. Jane looked up from her book to gaze at the boys, who had now reached the park and each had a swing, kicking the dirt beneath their feet and chatting animatedly to each other. Sherlock was still quiet around most people, quiet to the point that most people construed it as rudeness, but when he was with John, it was like looking at a completely different kid. His eyes shone, he was radiant, and the innocent friendship between them was breathtaking to witness. Jane knew that John had helped Sherlock in more ways than either boy realised yet.

"It's just... I don't want them to be teased... you know how cruel kids can be."

Jane nodded, then turned slightly away from him, staring towards another group of kids playing football. A group of kids who she hadn't been able to help but notice had sniggered as the two boys had wandered past them. Luckily, John and Sherlock hadn't noticed anything as far as she could tell.

"Isn't it a shame that the ones we think should change are the ones that aren't doing anything wrong?" she asked quietly. "They pose no harm to anyone, they're the best of friends. They're both so good for each other. And yet we-" she then coughed a little, and said "-well, in this case, _you, _think that the answer is to stop them from being happy and doing what comes naturally, to tell them it's wrong and won't be accepted. And the bullies, and the kids who don't understand... they just continue in their ignorance," she said sadly, glancing back at the boys. _Her _boys. She had grown to love Sherlock almost as much as one of her own. The thought of having to tell them that other people might not approve of their ways, acts that wouldn't even be looked at twice if they happened to be two female best friends, made her feel slightly sick.

"Mum! Can we get an ice-cream Mum? Please?"

The boys were suddenly back in front of her and Eric. She pretended to roll her eyes, before producing some pennies for them both and smiling at them. John grinned and moved away, but Sherlock remained, staring between the two adults. Jane felt a small shiver down her back. It unnerved her when he did that, and she had noticed him doing it often. It was as if he could read her every thought. Telling herself he was just a ten-year old child with an unhappy family life didn't do anything to help her unease.

"Do you not want an ice-cream, love?" she asked, turning her smile to him. He hesitated, eyes flickering between herself and her husband, and then turned to follow John, who was waiting for him a few feet ahead. She saw the boys smile fondly at each other, John grabbing Sherlock's hand again, before heading over to the ice-cream van parked along the pavement next to the park.

She glanced at Eric, who was giving her a questioning look. "I don't want to destroy their innocence," she said. "But I'm scared that the wider world won't get them, Eric."

**So what did you think? Please review if you can, I would appreciate it :) the next chapter will start to deal with the teenage years. There's going to be angst, I'm afraid. But it won't last forever. Promise...? **


	2. Chapter 2

**Please review if you enjoy. Or if you don't! (So long as it's constructive, obviously). It would make me very happy. :)**

_September 14th, 1988_

"Freak".

He felt John tense up beside him, and smirked slightly to himself. The name-calling genuinely did not bother him. He couldn't care less that some idiots opted to resort to verbal harassment to try and get a reaction from him, and it gave him an odd sort of glee to know that it really bothered them when he refused to get drawn in.

John, on the other hand, was not so cool about the situation.

"Why do you let them speak to you like that?" he hissed as the boys walked off, not wishing to cause a scene in the library while the eagle eye of Mrs. Smyth was on them. "You need to stick up for yourself a bit more."

Sherlock shrugged, exhaling sharply and returning to his homework. The boys often frequented the library at lunch time, aiming to get as much of it done as possible so that they had less to do when they were home. Sherlock always ended up helping John but he didn't mind; John was keen to learn and didn't let Sherlock just do his work for him, wanting to understand and benefit from his help. In return, John had been known to defend Sherlock in heated moments, both verbally and, on occasion, physically. Whenever it had become physical, Sherlock was able to help out, though he often wished John wouldn't bother. It was so tiresome.

"You really don't mind, do you?" John said, almost admiringly. "It really doesn't bother you."

He shook his head, still intent on finishing at least part of his homework before the bell rang. "They don't like me because I scare them. They know I can read them, they don't understand how, so to make themselves feel better they attack me. I don't care. It shows how weak and pathetic they are."

John shook his head slightly, never failing to be amazed by his friend. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand it if he was constantly getting mocked, scuffed, tripped up, "accidentally" knocked into, and it hurt him almost as much that it was happening to his best friend. He sighed, and gazed down at his sheet of paper, just as Sherlock glanced up at him.

"You know they've started the boyfriend rumours now too?"

The blonde boy screwed his eyes tightly shut, then opened them and smiled nervously. "Well, I guess I'll have to not let it bother me either then."

* * *

"How are you enjoying Year 8 then, boys?"

Sherlock eyed the pile - there was no other way of describing it - of Shepherd's Pie that had been placed before him, and wondered how little of it he would manage to get away with eating this time. Not that it wouldn't be delicious, he was sure of it, but he had never had the biggest of appetites anyway, and recently he was finding he ate less and less. John had noticed, as had John's parents, but his own family had not, except, perhaps, Mycroft. Said a lot, really.

John's mum noticed the look, and sighed. "Sherlock, you don't need to eat it all, but if you could have a stab at it I'd be really chuffed. You don't want to make me sad that you won't eat my food, do you?"

"Guilt-trips tend not to work on me, Mrs. Watson," Sherlock drawled, but another, sharper look from her stopped him in his tracks. He muttered something under his breath, which Jane, rather wisely, chose to ignore.

"And your wise-beyond-your-years ways tend not to work on me either, young man," she said, not being able to help the grin threatening at her lips. "Please, Sherlock. Eat something. All that running around you two do, you need some nutrition."

"John eats plenty for the both of us," was his retort, and for that he earned a sharp kick to the legs.

Jane ignored the remark and turned back to her son. "Anyway. Year Eight. How is it so far?"

She wasn't expecting much response and was unsurprised to be greeted with two shrugs. She bit her lip, knowing what the boys had experienced the previous year, remembering how proud she'd been of both of them not (often) stooping to the bullies' level, and also how annoyed she'd been that Sherlock had refused to do anything about it, report it to any teacher or even retaliate in some superior way. She knew that his "superior ways" were what had caused the initial comments - other children were not used to children like her favourite dark-curled genius - but she had hoped that he would be able to deal with them in some way, despite his young age.

She hesitated, before continuing, having decided that they were on pretty neutral territory, plus neither Eric nor Harriet were there to embarrass the younger boys.

"You do know you can both confide in me... about anything?" she said softly.

John snorted and Sherlock smiled slightly, both of them glancing up at her slightly incredulously.

"Yeah, right," John said, glancing at Sherlock before returning to his food. But Sherlock continued to regard Jane, and she felt somewhat trapped in his gaze, his bright blue eyes piercing into her muddy brown ones. He kept it up for a few more seconds, before nodding slightly at her. She wasn't sure if it was an understanding, or just a 'thank you', but she was pleased nonetheless. She wanted Sherlock to know he had support and comfort, even if he didn't get it from his own family.

* * *

"So, what are the rumours?" John asked, slightly shyly, Sherlock felt. He laid back on John's bed, watching his friend as he searched through some videos he had stored in his cupboard. John hadn't been allowed a VCR in his bedroom until very recently and the novelty still hadn't worn off for him. Sherlock, who had had one for a couple of years now, thought John's excitement over the machine was verging on sickening, and he rolled his eyes at John's back.

"Oh, the usual unimaginative drivel," he said carelessly, tossing a hand to one side rather dramatically. "Back to the Future again, John, really?!"

John scowled, subconsciously putting a protective arm over the precious video case. "It's my favourite," he mumbled, not wanting to allow Sherlock to overrule him this time - it was his room, goddamnit. "Anyway, you didn't answer me thoroughly enough. What are the rumours? Who told you?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, chewing on his lip, thinking. "Paul. Asked me where my boyfriend was when I was walking to French on Monday. Everyone started sniggering." He sat up slightly and looked at John, who he realised was suddenly decidedly nervous. "Why are you bothered? You said you wouldn't let it bother you."

John sighed and flopped down beside him on the bed, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, well..."

"Look, it's perfectly obvious why the rumours have started. They're insecure, they don't have real friends, they see us together constantly, they're jealous of our closeness. Coupled with the fact that neither of us have gone in for that disgusting habit of dating one of the many vapid females in our school..."

"That's not nice," John cut in, looking a little annoyed, much to Sherlock's surprise. "They're not all vapid. Some are really nice."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh yes? Which one in particular is 'really nice'?"

His friend shuffled a little, looking embarrassed. "No one," he mumbled in vain, knowing as he said it that Sherlock would immediately know it was a lie.

Sherlock ran his mind back over the first few days of the new school year. Who had John been spending time with? Well, apart from himself. He was in a different French class from Sherlock, but every other class was the same. So it was someone in French - Sherlock hadn't noticed John looking at anyone else at any other time, they sat together in every other lesson, much to several teachers' vague amusement. A girl in French who wasn't in any of the other classes that they were both in, otherwise Sherlock would have noticed John's distraction, no matter how minute. There was only one.

"Mary," Sherlock breathed, and John turned an alarming shade of deep purple. Jackpot.

"She's... really sweet," John bumbled, staring at the video case in his hands. "She's really nice to me too, and she knows who you are, she thinks you're really smart-"

"Flattery will not win me over," Sherlock half-lied.

"Look, Sherlock," John said, sounding a little bit more annoyed now. "She is really nice, I think you should at least get to know her before you judge her from afar. She would never say mean things to you, she's pretty smart too and doesn't hang around with the gaggle of silly girls. She sort of.. keeps herself to herself. Like we do, only she really is on her own."

Sherlock thought for a moment. When he had noticed this Mary, she had always been on her own, but she'd seemed quite content. No one bothered her either. There was nothing obviously "freakish" about her, she just liked her own company. Most people were probably not even aware of her name. He had to admit, there was nothing about her to dislike.

And yet still, he felt a small stab of jealousy as he realised that John _really did _seem to like her. For the past seven years, it had just been him and John, 'against the world'. Sherlock had never had another friend and John, although more than happy to socialise with other kids, had never got anywhere near as close to anyone as he was to Sherlock, always gravitating to him when he was around. Sherlock often kidded himself that John practically idolised him. He was constantly amazed at Sherlock's increasing amount of deductions, was bowled over by his intelligence and laughed at anything vaguely amusing that Sherlock had to say. And now this girl... she threatened everything.

"Do you... want to go out with her?" Sherlock hissed.

John sighed and looked at his friend almost fondly. "We're going out this weekend," he admitted. "If nothing else, it'll shatter the boyfriend rumours, eh?"

The silence was beyond uncomfortable. Sherlock was concentrating on the feeling of abject anger brimming inside of him. It was an emotion he didn't understand. Of course he had felt angry before, but he always completely understood why. This time, he really wasn't sure. He tried to convince himself that he was just scared that Mary would steal John from him-

"Sherlock, Mary isn't going to steal me from you."

-but he believed John's assurances. John would still be his friend. John would still spend all his time at school - apart from French - with him. They would still see each other outside school. They would still be as close as they were now.

So why on earth was he so incredibly angry?

* * *

_September 14th, 1989_

Greg sat back in his chair and watched the two of them bickering. He grinned, unable to stop himself. They really were like an old married couple.

"You absolutely said you were free this Friday."

"No, I absolutely did not, Sherlock. I'm _never _free on Fridays. That's the one evening I spend with Mary. Please, for once in your life, be reasonable."

"But we-"

"Sherlock! I. Am. Not. Free. On. Friday. Mary is more than accommodating to you and your possessiveness, but the agreement has always been that Friday Night is OUR night. We're going to the cinema."

Greg coughed lightly. "I'm free on Friday, if that helps?"

"Shut up Graham," Sherlock muttered, not looking at him.

John stared at the angry, dark-haired boy sat next to him. "Sherlock, it's _Greg. _For god's sake, you've spent the last week with him and you still can't remember his sodding name?!"

"Don't worry John," Greg sighed, having already learnt that Sherlock did not set aside enough room in his brain to remember unimportant things such as people's names. He drummed his fingers on the table, waiting for the explosion that was guaranteed to happen in the next few seconds. Even having only known the pair of them since he started at this school at the beginning of term, he was already used to their frequent, but very quick, spats. He wasn't waiting long.

"I always knew she would come between us," Sherlock whined, rather pathetically. John's eyes flashed with annoyance and a touch of anger.

"Right, that's it Sherlock," he said, standing up abruptly and grabbing his lunch tray. "I've had enough of this. I spend every minute of the day with you when I'm not with Mary, and I can absolutely guarantee that time split is heavily in your favour. And yet you STILL gripe and moan when I want to spend _one evening _with my, thankfully, very understanding, girlfriend? What is the matter with you? Get some more bloody friends and stop clinging to me like a child!"

"By all means," Sherlock hissed. "I didn't realise spending time with your _best friend_ was so awful."

John stared at him, aghast. "You are unbelievable, Sherlock! Just... leave me alone." With that, he stormed off, tray in hand, and Sherlock sighed dramatically, resting his head on his folded arms.

Greg chuckled lightly. "You really like him, don't you?"

Sherlock huffed, his face still buried in his arms resting on the table. "Not at this very moment, I don't."

"No... I mean you _like_ him."

Sherlock sat up suddenly, glaring at him. "Yes, I _like _him. He's my friend. Well, he's supposed to be, but he's currently doing an abysmal job at it."

Greg grinned at the daft genius sat opposite him. He himself wasn't exactly stupid, and had quickly picked up on the bond between the two boys who he had been assigned to when he'd joined the year group. The teachers felt that John and Sherlock maybe needed to be forced to spend some time with another student, and a new one, with no prior knowledge to their situation, would probably be ideal. John had warmed to Greg immediately, much to Sherlock's chagrin, although even he conceded that there was nothing particularly wrong with the rather cocky new boy. He was certainly better than any of the other imbeciles at their school. He had quickly deduced Greg's background - happy family life, on the move because his dad had been moved elsewhere within the police force, younger brother, smoked (something Sherlock could maybe bond with him over, since John violently disapproved of the habit, especially as they were underage), likely to follow in his father's footsteps into the police. Nothing bad. Nothing particularly interesting, but nothing bad either.

"You're still not getting it. I mean you like him as more than a friend. You're jealous of Mary."

Sherlock's eyes rolled. "You are just like the others," he mumbled, suddenly looking sad and a little... guilty?

"No, I'm not," Greg said gently. "Because, unlike the others, I couldn't give a toss if you fancy your best mate. And I'm not going to tease you about it."

"I do NOT-" Sherlock bit his lip, glancing around the room, but luckily no one was paying them any attention. "I do not fancy John," he said stubbornly, not looking Greg in the eye.

"Okay," Greg said, that annoying cockiness creeping into his voice. "I'll believe you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed and lowered his head again, staring at his untouched plate of food in front of him. "Hundreds don't," he said softly.

Probably rightly, for once, his brain added.

**Next chapter - Sherlock's family make an appearance, as does Mary. Sherlock fights his emotions and tries to delete them. And a bit/lot more angst. Sorry about that. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you muchly for your continued follows and favourites, and thank you to zeldakitty and starrysummernight for your lovely reviews. Hope everyone enjoys this chapter. In case you're losing track, the boys are nearly 15 now. **

_September 14th, 1990_

"Books and jumpers. That is literally all you are packing."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and glanced up at his brother, stood leaning on the doorframe into his bedroom, eyes darting around at the open suitcase on the floor and the piles of items surrounding it.

"Sherlock, as you well know, I already have most of my possessions at my flat in Cambridge. Why are you here, again?"

"I bet it's all books and jumpers there too," Sherlock mused, his eyes now grazing the ceiling.

"One last time, Sherlock. It's quarter past twelve on a Friday afternoon, why on earth aren't you at school?"

The younger boy shrugged, refusing to meet his older brother's penetrating gaze. "Just cos."

"Does Mummy know?"

"Like Mummy would give a toss anyway," Sherlock spat, flushing in slight anger.

"Oh dear," Mycroft said softly, pursing his lips before continuing with his packing. He failed to continue his train of thought, something which he knew would irk his little brother. Five, four, three, two...

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

The elder Holmes brother sat back on his heels, surveying the room for anything else he might need, before turning his attention to Sherlock, who was looking somewhat peeved but unable to hide his vague interest in whatever Mycroft had to say. Although Sherlock hated to admit it, Mycroft was even more intuitive than he was and his deduction skills were second to none, often able to tell what Sherlock was thinking before he himself knew.

"I take it you and the Marvellous Master Watson have had a tiff?"

Sherlock frowned. "How did you get from Mummy to that?"

"Well, Mummy has always been aloof in her affections with both of us, and the way you managed to cope with that was to form a rather hideous attachment to your young friend, who has always been a... support... for you," Mycroft said, barely able to hide the distaste in his voice. He had long given up on relying on other human beings for any kind of friendship or comfort, much preferring his own company. "So the fact that you are now focussing in a negative manner on our mother's lack of caring towards you and your habits suggests that your usual support is being... unsupportive."

"Hmmph," Sherlock responded, a little childishly, but he did not deny anything that his older brother had said. Mycroft smirked in a rather smug fashion and returned to the task at hand.

"I would rather you didn't come and pester me every time you have marital problems," he added spitefully. "Not that I'll be here for you most of the time anyway." When he looked up again, his brother had vanished.

* * *

The banging on the door was relentless, and after a couple of minutes, he heard Mycroft deign to go to answer the loud visitor. Mumbles of voices he couldn't quite make out - except that the visitor was quite obviously female, followed by Mycroft's shout of "Sherlock! A... friend... for you. Shall I let her up?"

Sherlock groaned, bashing his head against his pillow, knowing exactly who it would be. His lack of response interpreted as assent, he quickly heard the soft footsteps up the stairs, and a more tentative knock at his bedroom door. He rolled over so he was face down, still refusing to respond, and was unsurprised when the door opened anyway and a figure approached the bed.

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."

"Go. Away."

"No, I won't."

He flipped over suddenly, staring up into the amused, quirked eyes of Mary Morstan.

"Fine. Stay here and watch me violently ignore you."

"Violently?"

He grabbed the glass on his bedside table and threw it at the wall, where it gratifyingly smashed into small pieces. He heard a cry of "Oh for goodness-!" from downstairs, but knew that Mycroft wouldn't bother to investigate.

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

"I really couldn't care whether it did or not, Mary, but you will soon discover that you are _wasting your time."_

Mary sighed, and plonked herself down on Sherlock's bed, much to his horror. "Look, Sherlock. As ridiculous as this is going to sound, I actually really like you. I think you and John are the best friends I have ever had, and I know that _you _and _John _are closer than probably John and I could ever have hoped to be. But when you're so close, you're going to have arguments, and you have to learn how to deal with them."

Sherlock, now sitting up and leaning his back against the headboard of his bed, closed his eyes, humming a little, doing his best job of ignoring Mary, and bit down the urge to accuse her of patronising him. It was painful.

"And," Mary breathed in, trying to collect her thoughts, before persevering. "Falling out over John's refusal to take Music-"

"It's a betrayal," Sherlock said angrily. "He agreed with me on what subjects we would take-"

"Sherlock, do you hear yourself? Do you hear how utterly ridiculous you sound?!" Mary exclaimed, exasperated. "John changed his mind because he needed other subjects to improve his chances of being accepted to study Medicine when he hopefully goes to university. He didn't have space in his schedule to take Music as well."

"But we agreed," Sherlock said, a little sadly. "Now that's another class I won't have with him."

Mary couldn't help but smile slightly at the pathetic looking young teenager sat in front of her, his knees pulled up to his chest and his head falling forward slightly. She guessed he was trying to hide his face, and she felt a pang of sympathy for him. He loved John. She knew that, and that was partly the reason why she had decided to end things with him a few months previously. They were still friends, and Sherlock had suddenly got on with her much better once their 'romance' was over. She was also suspicious of John's feelings for the highly unpredictable dark-haired boy, but he had never once suggested verbally to her that they were anything other than platonic. He had, however, not been that upset when she had explained to him that she thought they would be better as friends - it had not been a "line", she had genuinely meant it, and had been delighted when he had apparently agreed with her. She had a feeling that, if John was attracted to Sherlock, he might not even be aware of it yet.

"Sherlock, stop being so daft. You have all but four classes with John. 8 lessons a week."

He nodded slightly. He knew she was right, and he recognised that his friendship with John was bordering on unhealthy. He felt genuinely aggrieved when he was without him. The bullying had died down, and in all of his lessons without John, either Mary, Greg or little Molly were in them, but he still struggled without his sidekick. He was terrified that he would make new friends that weren't accepting of Sherlock, unlike those three, and tear him away.

"I know how you feel about him."

Sherlock stared at her then, feeling resentment building up within him.

"I know what you're veering towards Mary, but I can assure you that you are heading down the wrong path."

A lopsided smile appeared on her face, and she reached forward to pat him on the shoulder. "Sure, Sherlock." She stood up, needing to get back to school before lunch break was over, still smiling at him, which annoyed him even more. He felt nothing more than friendship for John, he was sure. He had examined his feelings, deleted the ones he felt were unnecessary, and he had moved forward. John was a good friend - yes, his best friend, even if he did keep letting him down - but he was nothing more.

"I mean it, Mary. I am angry with John for changing his mind - without informing me, may I add - and I most certainly do not feel anything other than platonic love for him."

Mary chuckled. "Yeah, alright Sherlock," she said infuriatingly. "You keep telling yourself that."

* * *

Jane opened the door and was slightly surprised to find a bedraggled Sherlock stood on her doorstep, looking a little sorry for himself.

"Sherlock, love, come in. It's chucking it down, did you not bring an umbrella?"

The boy looked startled at her mention of the rain, and peered back round behind him. "Oh. Uh, no, I didn't."

She ushered him in the house, and through to the living room where she had the fire on. It was unseasonably cold and wet for mid-September and she shuddered at the thought of poor Sherlock walking all the way from his house to theirs. He still looked rather bemused, and sat gracefully down in the chair she had quickly moved near to the fire, absent-mindedly holding his hands up to it. She sat on the chair facing him, watching him curiously.

"Are you okay? John should be home from school soon... actually, how come you..."

"I wanted to talk to you, Mrs Watson," Sherlock said suddenly, looking up at her. She was struck by the emotion in his eyes, and was briefly lost for words. "I remember you said that we could confide in you about anything, and I wondered if I might take you up on that?"

Jane was shocked. Nothing had prepared her for that. She had always been keen for Sherlock to talk to her about anything, but he had never seemed eager to share anything with anyone other than John, and John certainly never divulged to her anything he had to say.

"Of... of course," she said, smiling brightly at him. "You know you can talk to me about anything, my love."

Sherlock winced, having never got used to that term of endearment, but let it slide. He sat back in the chair, pondering on how to start. Jane watched him encouragingly, but didn't want to push him into anything. The fire burned merrily beside them both, adding a friendly tone to the conversation.

He studied the sleeve of his coat, then realised he should probably remove it as it was absolutely soaking. He stood briefly to take it off, then folded it over the arm of the chair before sitting back down. Jane eyed it briefly, making a mental note to hang it in front of the fire before he went home.

"I'm worried I'm going to push John away."

The words hung between them, and Jane tried very hard not to giggle at the earnest, and rather sad looking boy sat in front of her. She also fought the urge to give him a cuddle, which she knew he would not appreciate.

"What makes you think that?" she asked quietly.

Sherlock bit his lip. "I'm too needy, I rely on him too much, I expect too much of him. I get angry at him when he doesn't devote all his time to me and I get exasperated with him when he struggles to keep up with my whirring brain. I'm a dreadful friend, really. I do nothing for him and he does everything for me." His ramble finished, he sat back, breathing a little harder, and watched the flames of the fire dancing.

Jane smiled slightly to herself, and moved her chair forward slightly. Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"I'll let you in on a secret," she said conspiratorially. "John... adores you, Sherlock. I really don't think there's much you could do that would drive him away."

The boy sighed, shaking his head slightly. "I know. And that's why I feel so awful. He deserves to have a nice friend, not someone like me."

The front door opened suddenly, and a few seconds later, a rather wet John appeared in the doorway. He did a double take when he saw his mum and his friend, having what looked like a cosy chat in front of the fire.

"Sherlock? Where did you disappear to? Mary said she went to see you but wouldn't tell me what happened."

Jane turned to her son and smiled. "Sherlock and I have just been having a little chat, dear. Pop the kettle on, will you?"

John raised an eyebrow at the pair of them, before shrugging off his coat and disappearing into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, I know for a fact that you two are in it for the long haul," she said softly. "You'll have your fall-outs, who doesn't? But you two... you're made for each other," she said, a little ambiguously. Even she had realised the vagueness of her words, but she didn't attempt to explain any further. "You'll be just fine. Just... maybe try not to lose your temper at him too often, hmm?"

Sherlock tensed at her words, but could feel himself agreeing. He could see them being friends into old age and beyond. So long as he didn't mess it up too much. He smiled a little shyly at his friend's mum. "I think I have an apology to make," he said, not being able to help the shudder in his voice. "I hate saying sorry."

As he made his way into the kitchen, he smiled to himself. They would be okay. They would be friends forever, nothing more, and he was absolutely fine with that. Any other feelings had been deleted, he was absolutely sure of that.

* * *

He tried to focus on the TV in front of them, but he couldn't. He was far too distracted with the presence of his manic friend slouched beside him, his hair tickling his face as he leaned into his shoulder. An act that up until recently had felt so comfortable for both of them, so normal. They had stopped holding hands years back, after realising for themselves that it was frowned upon and only served to attract unwanted attention, but they often found themselves sitting close together on a sofa at one or the other's house - normally John's - happily watching television, a film, or having a chat with family members or other friends. Greg, Molly and Mary all seemed fine with it. It was just the way they were, and they accepted them as a pair - Sherlock and John.

But since Mary and he had amicably agreed to split up, and since his emotions towards that had been nowhere near as awful as he'd imagined, John had begun to become acutely aware of his feelings towards his barmy, hot-tempered friend. He knew he loved him, but he'd always assumed that the love had been the highest form of platonic friendship. He knew that they had a friendship that few others of their age had, and he had always been proud of it. He had never bothered to investigate other feelings.

Then Molly had joined their year group, bumped up from the year below, and her feelings for Sherlock had been abundantly clear to everyone, except perhaps Sherlock, who viewed her as a mild annoyance but was agreeable to the idea of including her in their little friendship group. John had found it briefly amusing, then... then it wasn't so funny. He recognised the looks that Molly gave his friend in himself. He felt a strange annoyed feeling when she tagged around him, and was even more wound up when Sherlock, vaguely amused by her eagerness, would indulge her in conversation. It bothered him. Since then, he'd become aware of his slightly heightened pulse whenever Sherlock was near him - which was quite often, to be fair - and he'd caught himself gazing at his friend in wonder as he said something intelligent or amusing or deduced something about someone in a few seconds. It scared him.

When Sherlock had found out about his lesson switch, John had been genuinely devastated. He'd known he couldn't fit it into his schedule if he wanted to go into medicine, and yet he'd hated to leave his friend for another lesson each week. When Sherlock got mad at him, he felt mad too. Mad at the situation that separated them again, if only briefly each week. It was ridiculous how upset he was about it, and, attempting to hide his anger, he had lashed out at Sherlock, who had then disappeared from the school. Obviously seeking sanctuary of some kind at his house.

He sighed, eventually giving in to his body's instinctive want, and put an arm as casually as possible round his friend, causing Sherlock to snuggle in more. John screwed his eyes shut, before relaxing into the embrace, feeling far more comfortable, but also very confused.

Across the room, Jane regarded the pair of them, unable to stop the smirk appearing on her face.

**The next chapter could go one of a few ways. I have a couple of main ideas at the front of my mind. If you have any suggestions/requests, feel free to mention them and I shall consider them. Something biggish is going to happen in late teens/early twenties but until then I'm open to ideas. Please review, it would make me very happy :) **


	4. Chapter 4

**Jumping ahead two years for this chapter. Hope you enjoy. And please, please review, I love reading them. Favourites and follows are also well received :)**

**Thank you to the lovely TheVenturer and Kuhlu for reviews for the last chapter. **

_September 14th, 1992_

Eric stormed past his wife as she stood by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. Slightly startled, she spun round to stare at him as he stopped at the table, turning slightly so she could see his profile, nose tilted up slightly, cheek flushed red, his eyes taking on a rather angry glare.

"Eric?" Jane asked tentatively.

He glared at her. "Sherlock didn't go home last night Jane," he hissed at her. "Did he?"

Her eyebrows furrowed. "I honestly don't know," she said. "I went to bed before they did. I just presumed he'd head off later. Why does it matter?"

Her husband exhaled sharply, placing his hands on the worktop and staring out of the kitchen window. "Why does it... For god's sake Jane, this is what I warned you about all those years ago! _People will talk!"_

"And so what if they do?!" she exploded. "I can practically guarantee you that Sherlock will have fallen asleep sprawled across the bed and John will have not wanted to disturb him - he'll have probably slept on the _floor - _and nothing "untoward" will have happened between them, no one will even know except me, you and the bloody kettle, yet you are so angry that two friends have had a _sleepover? _Are you kidding me, Eric Watson? They are still children!"

"They are NOT children! They are sixteen years old, they should be going out and chatting up girls. Hell, maybe even getting drunk in a park with a group of mates behind some bins! They should not be spending every sodding waking hour of their lives together, just the two of them, like they did when they were five! They are NOT children anymore Jane!" Eric practically spat back at her.

There was a horrified silence. Jane turned back to the kettle, hands shaking as she poured the water into the two mugs. She could hear Eric breathing heavily behind her, but she didn't want to look at him. She barely wanted to hear his voice at that moment. She had always believed that Eric was concerned purely from the point of view of a father worried that his child might be bullied. She hadn't for one minute thought that he was...

"You're homophobic," she breathed. She heard him sigh behind her.

"No, Jane, I'm not," he said, quietly, sadly.

"But you don't want your children to be gay."

He didn't answer that, and she finally turned back round to see him still staring out of the window, hands clenched on the worktop, knuckles almost white from the effort.

"I could have maybe coped with one," he said, teeth clenched together, head now bowed slightly. "I found it easier to deal with Harriet. There's something less..."

"Repulsive?"

He shot a look at her, before continuing. "It's less offensive," he said. "But I cannot deal with both of my children being gay, Jane. I just can't."

She felt a little sick as she contemplated the man before her, the man she'd thought she knew. She was all too aware of the common consensus of homosexuals being different, weird, even disgusting, amongst many of her peers. She had tried to educate, had argued, but ultimately had accepted that many people were ignorant. She hadn't thought that her husband was one of the great uneducated.

"Well, maybe you won't have to," she replied shortly. "John's never even hinted at being gay. And he's had a girlfriend."

"Yeah, how long ago? And come on Jane, it doesn't take a bleeding expert to see the attraction between the two of them."

"So what's your problem?" she asked. "If even you, the great bull-headed homophobe, can see the obvious bond between them, what makes you so eager to break it? What harm are they doing anyone?"

Eric didn't answer, continuing to stare out of the window. Jane picked up her mug and walked out of the room.

* * *

Upstairs, John strained to hear if there was likely to be any more arguing, and his silent question was answered when he heard his mother's footsteps on the stairs. As he heard her making her way to the bedroom, she called out "Boys! It's 7.30!"

"No lessons today Mum!" John called back. He heard a grunt in reply before her footsteps faded away.

"Being in sixth form does have its uses."

John peered back over his shoulder to see his friend apparently beginning to awaken. His mum had got that wrong, at least, John thought in slight amusement. There was no way he would be sleeping on his own bedroom floor.

"You're very warm, you know."

John turned his body round and playfully whacked Sherlock over the head. "Well, you will nod off on my bed," he retorted. "Didn't want to wake you up on the rare occasion that you were actually sleeping."

"I sleep," Sherlock muttered, raising himself up onto his elbows. "Glad to see you removed my trousers though."

"Don't get too excited. You kicked them off of your own accord. Sleep-undressing."

"Well, at least I kept my top on," he smiled, glancing down at himself as if to double-check. "And my boxers. And I see you are wearing a rather fetching pair of pyjamas."

John flushed slightly. "They're comfortable."

"Sure." He paused for a moment, glancing up at John and catching his gaze. "I guess you heard the row then."

The blonde teen bit his lip, nodding slightly. "I guess you did too, judging by that statement. I thought you were still asleep."

"It's amazing how loud voices penetrate a nice comfortable slumber," he said, managing to flush a little himself. "I'm almost grateful that my parents don't care about me enough to worry what the neighbours might think about me having a sleepover with my best friend."

John tutted, but didn't bother to disagree with him. To be fair to his friend, he had a point.

"So."

"So," Sherlock repeated. "Your dad doesn't like the gays."

"I kinda figured. He's been a little bit odd around you since Mary and I split up."

"Well, he's getting all worked up for nothing," Sherlock said, risking a quick glance at John. "Isn't he?"

John opened his mouth, about to say something, then closed it again, forcing a smile onto his face. "Yeah."

Sherlock sighed. "Your dad's opinion always did mean so much to you, didn't it John?"

The situation the boys were in suddenly felt uncomfortable, a feeling that neither of them were used to around each other. John cleared his throat, trying to work out what Sherlock had meant with that last statement, before jumping out of his bed, and grabbed some clothes.

"I'll just go... shower, and get ready, and then you can go if you want, yeah?"

Sherlock just stared at him, in a way that John couldn't quite decipher. They stayed like that for a few seconds, lost in a trance, before he broke the gaze, eyes flickering to the clock above his bed. "And, when we're done, we can go out somewhere. See what the others are up to, if they have lessons. Alright? Good. Okay." He babbled as he was leaving the room, not wanting to look at Sherlock again, at that strange, deducing face, and closed the door behind him before racing to the bathroom, hoping against hope that he didn't bump into his dad, or that his dad didn't decide to pop into his bedroom in the next five minutes.

* * *

"You've got no chance, Molls."

Molly sighed heavily, the breath blowing her fringe up off her face, as the three of them watched John and Sherlock while they stood at the counter. The pair had arrived late and Greg had already got food in for him and the two girls, so the boys had waltzed over to the sandwich bar to get a baguette. John was leaning slightly into Sherlock, and the two of them appeared to be sharing a joke, judging by the sudden sound of the taller boy's deep, short laugh. John grinned up at him before speaking to the man behind the till.

"Seriously Molly, give it up." Mary slurped on her lemonade, eyes fixed on her friend. "I dated one of them for a year and I can tell you firsthand, those two adore each other."

"I know," Molly admitted, glancing at the boys one more time before returning her attentions to her half-eaten sandwich. "And the ridiculous thing is, I want them to realise. I _want _them to get together. It would make it a little easier to bear if I knew I really didn't have a hope in hell of having Sherlock myself."

Mary made an aww noise, and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her a little closer. Molly rested her head on Mary's shoulder and sniffed a little, looking like a lovesick puppy. Greg rolled his eyes and pushed his plate away, feeling vaguely nauseated by the conversation.

"You alright Molly?" John asked as he approached the table, Sherlock not far behind. "You look kinda sad."

Molly nodded, sitting upright again. "Yeah. Just, uhh, bit tired. That's all."

Sherlock pulled a chair over from another table and sat beside John, elbows touching as they both began eating their lunch. After a few seconds of silence, John glanced up to see the other three staring at them, Mary with a slight smirk on her lips.

"What's wrong guys? You look like you've never seen anything more fascinating than two blokes eating lunch."

Greg cleared his throat. "What... what happened last night?"

John raised an eyebrow, glancing at Sherlock who had raised his head in vague interest.

"I... I don't know what you mean," he said, giving a forced smile. "What did happen last night?"

Greg shared a look with Mary, and stayed looking that way as he replied, feeling a little nervous. "I phoned your house last night, about 10.30. I know it was a little late, but I was just wondering if you were still up, I was about to take the dog for a walk and had just wondered if you'd wanted to come with me."

John felt Sherlock shake slightly next to him, and he wasn't sure if it was through being cold - unlikely - or laughter.

"And Harriet answered the phone, and she said that you and Sherlock were in your room, probably watching TV because you hadn't said goodnight, and she went to get you, and then she came back to the phone and _she said you were asleep in bed together." _Greg rushed the last part out, as Mary's smirk grew bigger and Molly suddenly seemed to find her sandwich utterly fascinating. "So... what happened last night?" He turned back to John, eyes fixed on him, which John felt a little unfair as Sherlock was just as much to blame. If not more so, as it was him falling asleep that had got them into this.

"I... we..."

"John was telling me something incredibly boring about something to do with... I don't know, planets or something," Sherlock said, icily calm, John felt. "I must have fallen asleep through sheer tedium, and John rather kindly ensured that I was comfortable before getting into bed himself. No funny business, nothing even slightly interesting happened. Except, I found out that John has a rather delightful collection of-"

"Thank you, Sherlock," John muttered.

Greg looked relieved, as did Molly, Sherlock noted. Mary still had an amused glint in her eye. "So, nothing happened?" she asked wickedly.

Sherlock glanced at John, who was staring furiously at the table. "No," the dark-haired boy said quietly. "Nothing happened."

* * *

_He felt John lifting his legs up onto the bed, being dimly aware that he suddenly felt a lot more secure, a lot more comfortable. He rolled his head slightly across the pillow, and felt John lifting the covers up over him. He decided to keep his eyes closed, not feeling completely awake, but not being entirely asleep either, content to drift off in his friend's bed, knowing that John would maybe sleep on the floor but more than likely maintain a safe distance from Sherlock in the double bed._

_What he hadn't expected was John, once changed (he had heard the rustling of clothes but was pretty sure his friend wasn't going to be slipping in between the sheets naked), to gently stroke his curls, fingering the dark locks in a manner that Sherlock had never experienced before, not even from his parents. John had touched his hair before, but not in this... loving, caressing way._

_"God, Sherlock. I wish you knew how much I love you."_

_Sherlock felt his heart jolt. He held his breath, keeping his eyes tightly closed, then realised that John might notice the sudden change in his breathing pattern. Slowly, carefully, he let the breath out, and, for effect, mumbled some nonsense into the pillow. He prayed to anyone out there that John would continue to stroke his hair, just for a little longer, just while he tried to work out what on earth was going on. He got his wish, and as he felt the light tug on his follicles, he coughed slightly to hide the moan that escaped his lips._

_He heard John chuckle lightly. "I wish I could tell you, Sherl, I really do," he whispered. "But god, imagine the stick we'd get. Imagine the trouble I'd get from my dad. Imagine... imagine if it destroyed our friendship. I couldn't deal with that. I'll just have to love you from afar. For now, anyway."_

_For now. Sherlock shuffled slightly as he felt John settle down behind him. Sherlock needed time to think about this... moment. He needed to examine his feelings, feelings he'd kept well buried for several years now. He needed to analyse what John had said, how he clearly feared so many consequences from any admission he might make. And he needed to focus on the last thing John said._

_For now._


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you to zeldakitty, AntiHeroLydia and TheVenturer (plus a guest) for your lovely reviews for the last chapter. Please all feel free to review, I love them. Constructive criticism welcome too :)**

* * *

_September 14, 1993_

John sank down on one of the battered old sofas in the sixth form common room, grateful for the few minutes of peace he knew he was likely to get, having arrived at school a fair bit earlier than necessary. The last few weeks had been a bit much for him, a bit too intense, and he had tried hard to keep away from everyone, to collect his thoughts. Everyone. Especially Sherlock sodding Holmes.

He was there, constantly. This wouldn't normally be a bad thing, and even now, John could feel himself missing his presence. But his struggle with his emotions, with his feelings, was reaching breaking point now. He couldn't look at his friend without feeling lustful. He shied away from sitting anywhere near him, let alone next to him, for fear that his body would betray him and he would lunge at his innocent, wide-eyed friend. Sherlock seemed to be at his house more often than not, to the amusement of his mother and sister and the frustration of his father. He seemed completely oblivious to John's uncomfortable coughs, his twitches, and whenever John had managed to escape him, he would follow him. Not in a lovesick, pathetic way, which would have maybe given John some hope that his feelings were reciprocated in some fashion, but in a curious, interested way, which certainly didn't dampen any hope but wasn't exactly helpful. Sherlock was often curious, about all manner of things, and it certainly didn't denote romantic attachment, or any attachment at all.

When Sherlock, evidently exhausted, had flopped on top of John the other evening, resting his head in his friend's lap, John had almost combusted. An action that would have been almost natural a few years ago now felt so wrong in so many ways, and the weight of Sherlock's head resting on him had begun the stirrings of feelings that John certainly did not want Sherlock to become aware of. Panicked, he'd "playfully" pushed his friend onto the floor, unable to help a slight smirk as the dark-haired young man had lifted his head, looking very affronted at his new, unwanted position. But, for a few seconds, their eyes had locked, and John had almost dared to imagine a scenario he had thought about so many times unfolding. His parents were out, Harriet was away...

But the moment was gone, and Sherlock, huffing slightly, had moved to curl up in the armchair next to the sofa, shooting the odd put-upon hurt look at John, who, despite the precarious situation he had just experienced, couldn't help but chuckle at them.

They were still just as close as ever, and John tried desperately to forget about the ever-growing feelings of infatuation for his friend so he could just enjoy his company, the way he always had. Greg had noticed John trying to put some sort of physical distance between them, and had asked him about it. John had muttered something about them both growing up, and Greg had raised an eyebrow at him.

"Remember when I first started here, when you were seeing Mary?" he'd said. John furrowed his brow, nodding.

"I don't know if it was because I was new, maybe that helped," he'd continued, breathing out a little, trying to gauge John's mood before carrying on. "But the attraction between you two, even back then... it was so obvious to me, John," he said. "And it still is now. You love him, don't you?"

John had just stared at Greg; someone he'd always got on well with, but had never once confided in.

"I asked him, I knew he liked you. He didn't answer, not properly anyway. He tried to tell me I was wrong, but I knew, because if it really hadn't have been true, he would have reacted much more strongly than he did. It was like he was resigned to the fact."

"Yeah, well, that was... what, four years ago?" John had snapped. "Things change, Greg."

He had grinned then, in a most annoying way, and John had felt a sudden urge to punch him in the face.

"You two have never been more obvious," he'd said smartly. "To everyone apart from each other, obviously."

John stared at the clock, bringing himself back to the present. He had about ten minutes before the first influx of students arrived. Sherlock didn't have any classes today, and John just had two this morning. He was supposed to be meeting him in town later, and his heart leapt at the thought of seeing him, which just made him angry with himself again. He was so sure that, if he broached the subject with Sherlock, he would scare his friend, or at the very least he would have his dreams shattered by being rejected. John decided he would rather not know for now, and live in hope, than be told that he had no chance. He sighed, noting the footsteps of a student approaching the common room, and tried to organise his face into a smile for whoever it was.

* * *

Sherlock hurried up the path towards the building, feeling nervous suddenly, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He'd given himself a year, a whole year, to deduce John and his feelings, and, with the help of a couple of friends, he was pretty sure he had arrived at the right conclusion. He'd managed to catch John's pulse on various occasions, comparing it to what he knew was his normal rate - heightened whenever Sherlock was a little _too _near. Pupils dilated. A slight flush to his face. Suddenly seeming determined to keep a modicum of distance between them, even though all his other outward signs were suggesting that was the last thing he wanted. Still eager to spend time with him, then seeming to lose the power of speech at various points. Eyes locking. Clearing his throat a lot. Averting gaze, becoming suddenly fascinated in a picture hanging on the wall, or a song that had just come on the radio. Staring at Sherlock's mouth when he thought he wasn't watching. Jumping away from Sherlock on the now rarer occasions when they were close together, whenever a parent appeared.

And Sherlock had it on rather good authority from that rather useful Gregory that John was definitely into him.

Mary had had her uses too. Molly had seemed less inclined to help, but she had also pointed out certain "tells" in John's behaviour. Mary had managed to coax a confession of sorts from her ex-boyfriend - in a fit of rage at being harangued by her, he had asked her why everyone seemed so surprised that he was attracted to the most beautiful guy in school, and the only thing that really was shocking was that there weren't more people clamouring over him. When Mary had triumphantly relayed this information to Sherlock and Molly, he had noticed a very slight sigh escaping the latter's lips, and he had rolled his eyes, wishing she'd just get over him already. At first it had been amusing, then rather ego-boosting. Now it was just annoying.

He glanced at his watch. He had about seven minutes before students started arriving for classes, and he knew that John was already in the common room, having clocked him walking in. Sherlock had paced around at the front gate to the school, the nerves starting to set in then, and it had taken him a few minutes to summon up the courage to proceed to the building, where his friend was sat, and ambush him. He had hoped that seeing Sherlock when he hadn't expected to might mean that John let slip things he wouldn't if he'd been pre-warned, if he was on guard. He effectively hoped to shock him into a confession. Because god knows, if Sherlock had to be the one to say something, he had a feeling it would be an absolute disaster. Words, feelings, emotions... it was all alien territory to him. He didn't feel much for anybody. Anybody except John.

He was there now, approaching the door, his hand reaching out for the handle, opening...

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

John was stood, evidently prepared for whoever he had heard approaching the room. He'd probably expected Greg, another early bird (although he had suggested he might be arriving a little later today). He looked slightly unkempt, not a bad look for him by any means. His sandy hair was tousled, his eyes looked suddenly alert and confused, darting between the door behind him and his face, as if unable to process what had just happened. Sherlock rarely made it into school when he _should _be there these days, let alone when he had a full day off.

Sherlock's eyes dropped to John's lips, slightly parted in confusion, then took in his stance, his hands clenched slightly, tracing his eyes up his arms - muscular, he knew, he'd seen them often enough - to his neck, his Adam's apple throbbing slightly, a vein protruding, a faint flush appearing and stretching up to his face. That face, so full of expression, of varying emotions, and Sherlock yearned to see him smile. John's smile could light up an entire room, he was sure of it. It certainly dazzled him on many occasions. And the way he looked at him - not the way he was now, but when he was particularly impressed by an observation, or in awe at a deduction made on a random student that was proved correct, that look sent shivers up Sherlock's spine. It was adoration, pure and simple, the only person who was ever impressed by Sherlock, and the only person who Sherlock wanted to impress.

All thoughts left him, except that one that he held onto for dear life. _John loves you. You know John loves you. He told you so, last year. Remember? You can do this. You can._

"Sherlock?"

Three strides, that was all it took, though Sherlock knew he would look back on that moment as the longest walk he'd ever taken. From one side of the room to John, who was still blinking at him, mouth agape like a stunned goldfish. Not the most alluring of looks, Sherlock thought briefly, before he raised one hand to John's head, pressing it firmly, but not too hard, against the nape of his neck, and, before he could shout at himself to stop being so insane, he closed his eyes and kissed him.

It was the lightest of touches - even in his sudden state of desire, he knew that he didn't want to alarm John more than necessary. His lips brushed against John's briefly, before going in again, slightly less soft, but still gentle, tender and with a hint of nervousness. He waited for what felt like an age for John to respond, embracing the softness of his friend's lips on his. He let his other hand drift up and rest on John's waist, before attempting an embrace, trying to hug his friend into him.

Suddenly he was aware of strong hands on his hips, John's body pressing gently against his, and John _was returning the kiss. _Relief flooded through Sherlock, still feeling incredibly naive and aware of how little he knew, really, about what he was doing, but also feeling instinctively like he did know, he really did, as John tilted his head to one side, pressing his mouth back into Sherlock's, and Sherlock felt John's light breath against his face. He was suddenly aware of how right this felt, how he wished he'd done this sooner, how...

They both jumped as they heard footsteps approaching the room, and Sherlock sprang back, wiping his mouth quickly in case there was any obvious proof that he'd been kissing his best friend seconds before. John was still staring at him, but there was no horror or panic etched into his face. He was just stunned, amazed, and Sherlock couldn't help but wink at him as the door opened. He spun around and smiled at a group of girls, who all looked at him in shock. Sherlock Holmes did not smile at just anyone, and certainly not in such a friendly manner.

"Morning," he said cheerfully, glancing over his shoulder at John, who had recovered himself slightly and had managed a weak grin in the girls' direction. "I'll see you after your classes, yes?"

John just about managed a nod and Sherlock shot him another quick smile, before sauntering out of the room as if nothing had happened.

* * *

He could barely concentrate all morning. He'd spent the whole time staring blankly towards the front of the classroom, his mind not even able to process what had happened, let alone examine it. He could well have been asked several questions that day, but he wasn't aware that he had. Greg, who had bumped into Sherlock on the way into school and had been sitting next to John for Biology, had struggled to keep his mirth from creeping out. Finally, something was happening between his two best mates, and he couldn't be more thrilled. John had no idea that Greg knew what was going on, and was barely aware that Greg was even there.

When his science lesson had ended, he stood up robotically, grabbing his bag and throwing it onto his back. He'd made to leave the room, but a hand stopped him. Blinking, he stared up into Greg's face, and Greg knew that he'd only just noticed his presence.

"Have a good day," Greg said, smiling slightly at his friend. "This has been a long time coming, John."

John just blinked at him, nodded slightly, and then left.

* * *

Sherlock appeared from nowhere as John walked out the front gate, and fell in step beside his friend. John seemed stunned still, and Sherlock sighed, hoping this wasn't going to take as long as he'd feared. He said nothing, didn't even walk particularly close to him, and carried on following John's lead.

Eventually they reached the park. John hesitated slightly, before approaching a bench near the pond and collapsing onto it, leaning back into the seat. Sherlock regarded him for a few moments, and then sat next to him, careful to leave a slight gap between them.

The silence was beginning to infuriate the younger man, and he exhaled, loudly, hoping that John might take the hint and say something. He didn't want to push him, or break the silence, if that was what John wanted, but it was beginning to get a little dull.

"You kissed me."

Sherlock glanced up at him, and John was looking at him now, but it wasn't a stare anymore. It was an enquiring gaze, fixed upon him, as if trying to read him, and Sherlock smirked slightly, wondering if emotions made him more readable.

"I did, yes. But you kissed me back, so you're just as bad."

A small smile played on John's lips, and he exhaled gently but in a way that suggested he'd been holding his breath for a little longer than he found comfortable. Sherlock wondered if John had expected him to deny the kiss had ever happened. Maybe he thought he'd imagined it. He looked relieved when Sherlock had confirmed the event had taken place, which he was sure was a good sign.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all morning."

"Good," said Sherlock. "Neither have I."

John paused, then looked forward, across to the duck pond. Sherlock sat back on the bench, enjoying the cool breeze on his skin, waiting for John to say something else. He felt gloriously... happy. There was no guarantee that this was going to sort itself out, that they were going to immediately figure out what they were, what they wanted and whether it was possible for something, anything to happen between them, but that kiss alone had sparked something in Sherlock, a warm glow deep inside him that he'd never felt before. Even "happy" wasn't an emotion he was overly familiar with, though it certainly made more of an appearance when he was in John's company.

"Why?"

"I wasn't asleep."

Sherlock had been waiting for this question, and had decided he was going to be honest with John. He hadn't intended to kiss him that morning, but it was all linked to that whispered confession, 12 months previously, when John had thought Sherlock to be fast asleep on his bed. If that hadn't happened... well, Sherlock didn't like to think how much longer this could have taken.

John frowned. "You're never asleep. Which particular time of non-sleep are you thinking about?"

"When you declared your love for me on your bed last year."

John paled. So he remembered. Sherlock hadn't imagined it. Thank god.

"You... you've known for all this time how I feel about you," John whispered, not looking at Sherlock, "and you didn't do anything til now?"

Sherlock could hear the mild annoyance rising in John's voice, and it was his turn to frown now.

"John, that's hardly fair. You've known how I feel about you for far longer."

"What?!"

"Think, John. Think, for god's sake. Remember how I was when you and Mary started dating? Remember how upset I got when you changed your lesson plan? Remember how I used any excuse to curl up beside you, even when your dad made it plainly obvious that he disapproved in the strongest possible terms?" Sherlock asked, exasperated. "You see, but you do not observe, as ever."

John suddenly laughed, and Sherlock glanced at him, surprised. His friend was laughing so hard, so suddenly, that there were tears in his eyes. He coughed a little, then, still smiling, looked across at Sherlock.

"And in matters of the heart, it seems you're just as bad!" John exclaimed. "Sherlock, I've been trying to hide my feelings far longer than this past year. I've..." he slowed down, thinking, but then continued on seemingly the same train of thought. "I've wanted you for so long. Probably even before Mary, although I can't say for sure. But once she broke it off with me, I realised that it was you I couldn't stop thinking about. At first I thought it was a teenage infatuation, especially as we were so close anyway. But I've been covering up how I feel for... three years now? Yes, three years. So don't give me your seeing-but-not-observing bollocks, because you missed everything before you heard my confession."

They were staring at each other now, and Sherlock gulped, a little taken aback by John's outburst. He placed his hand on the bench, in the gap between them, palm up. John looked down at it, looking back up at Sherlock, and then placed his hand on top of his, interlinking his fingers with Sherlock's long ones. It was the first time in years that they had held hands, and never with this level of need between them. When their hands touched, Sherlock felt a jolt through him like he'd never felt before, and suddenly, all he wanted was to kiss John again. But he didn't, very aware of their public setting, and not wanting to alarm his friend... if he could still call him that. So they sat, holding hands, staring at the pond, enjoying just being together, honestly, for the first time.

After a while, John squeezed Sherlock's hand, and he dazedly rolled his head in his direction. "Now what?" he whispered.

* * *

**Well, you'll hopefully be pleased to know that the next chapter follows on from where this one left off, on the same day. No jumping forwards yet. I just had to stop it somewhere as this chapter was getting a little long. Hope you enjoyed, please review and I will send you cake (maybe). :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks again to the lovely AntiHeroLydia, TheVenturer, and also to for their reviews. This chapter is a bit fluffy I'm afraid. Sorry about that :) Bit of a lengthy A/N at the end, if you wish to read it.**

_September 14th, 1993 continued_

They walked, a little aimlessly, for some time, talking about quite ordinary things, both seeming to staunchly avoid the subject of that kiss. They didn't hold hands, both feeling very aware of their surroundings and both feeling suddenly very nervous, but they walked close together, shoulders brushing every so often, unconsciously making it very clear to any passers-by who chose to contemplate the two boys for more than five seconds that there was _something _going on between them.

It wasn't too long, however, before they found themselves wandering towards John's house, Sherlock suddenly feeling a little peckish as he realised that it must be past lunchtime and he hadn't had any breakfast that morning, having felt too nervous about his impending plans for that day. He presumed, correctly, that John would invite him in, and he eagerly accepted the invitation, glad to hopefully have somewhere to talk to John properly in relative privacy.

As Sherlock hung his jacket on the stairs, John placed his bag on the floor and glanced up, smiling as his mother appeared in the doorway into the kitchen. She looked a little flushed, and Sherlock could smell the rather welcome scent of freshly baked bread emanating from the room.

"Hello boys," she said, grinning at them. "Care for some soup? It's my usual, bung whatever's in the vegetable drawer in and hope for the best concoction."

"Sounds wonderful, Mum," John said, glancing quickly at Sherlock to check he was okay with that, but his friend was already nodding towards Jane.

"Excellent. Harriet's not in so it's just the three of us. I've not seen you in ages Sherlock, we can have a good catch up" she beamed, before spinning on her heel and returning back to her hob. John raised an eyebrow - he'd been hoping on some alone time with Sherlock to discuss the morning's activities, and not a pleasant chat with his mother, but the taller boy nudged him playfully in the shoulder as he made his way past him into the kitchen, clearly quite happy to spend some time with Mrs. Watson. John couldn't help but smile at his friend's fondness for his mother. She was one of the only people he was regularly pleasant and friendly to, asides from himself, especially in the last year since _the row _between his parents. Gritting his teeth a little at the memory, he took his own coat off before heading through.

* * *

Something had changed. Jane was absolutely certain of it. She'd watched the two boys grow from devoted little five year olds, all the way through the highs and lows of puberty and teenage years, and now they were almost eighteen, both grown up so much in different ways - John was calm, polite and an absolute credit to his family, whilst Sherlock was wild, eccentric, but wise beyond his years. Well, intelligent. Wise was maybe stretching it. But all through that time, even when they'd had their fall-outs, Jane had been impressed and touched at how they'd stubbornly stuck together, helping each other through the bad times, always the constant in the other's life. They loved each other, anyone could see that.

But now, something was different. She cast a deductive eye over the pair of them, sitting almost intentionally some distance apart, something they had never really done before. There was a tension between them, but not at all unpleasant. Sherlock stole the odd glance at John, whilst John stared determinedly at his soup. Jane smirked to herself, knowing that John would be aware that she was watching them, and he would be absolutely determined not to give anything away, but by being so resolute, he'd done it anyway.

"I need to... pop out for a bit," she suddenly declared, pushing her chair away from the table and standing up briskly. "Got to go see a man... about... a dog. Anyway, you two help yourselves to more soup if you want, and there's plenty more bread as well." She smiled fondly at the two of them, both looking up at her in surprise at her sudden intended departure.

"I'll be about one... two hours. Two hours," she clarified, and noticed Sherlock's sudden grin. He knew what she was up to, and the grateful look on his face was evident. She grabbed her purse from the worktop and, with a quick wave to them, she was gone. They heard the door slam a few seconds later.

"Well, that was easier than I thought," John said, risking a look at his friend and noting the smile still lingering on his face.

"Your mum is rather excellent John, do you know that?" he mused. "So intuitive."

John stared at him, slightly worried. "You don't think she guessed..."

Sherlock scoffed, rising from the table, not quite finished with his soup but suddenly not that hungry. "I doubt she got all the ins and outs, but she knows enough to give us some time alone for now." He gazed at his friend, who gulped, fidgeting slightly in his chair.

"What's wrong, John? Am I making you nervous?"

John laughed, a rather hoarse chuckle, and then stood, facing Sherlock. "Are you making me nervous? Sherlock, I'm terrified. Yesterday, you were my best mate, my best friend of twelve years. I've grown up with you. You know me inside out, and I... well, I know as much about you as anyone is likely to, ever."

Sherlock nodded at that. It was true, he confided in no one other than John, and even then he struggled. It didn't come naturally to him. He preferred to figure out his own issues, spending hours at a time thinking, compartmentalising, and assessing. Often when he did talk to John he wasn't looking for a response, just an outlet, but John was more than happy to be that for him.

John took a deep breath, then grabbed one of Sherlock's hands. They were stood, face to face, and suddenly, Sherlock felt the nerves too, creeping up over him like a rash. If this all went wrong...

"You don't want to ruin our friendship," Sherlock said, understanding. "Neither do I, John. You're the most important person in my life."

There was a silence as both of them processed that information, Sherlock a little worried that he'd startled John with his statement. But John didn't look startled. He looked thoughtful.

"I guess this is where we need to be honest with each other," John said softly, gazing into Sherlock's piercing blue eyes and suddenly feeling like he'd rather skip the talking and just kiss him, forget that anything needed to be said and just get lost in the moment. But he knew it was important. Sherlock was important, too much so to risk it on an impulse.

His friend nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "I rather think it is."

* * *

"Have you heard anything?" Molly asked Greg urgently. It was coming up for three o'clock and there had been no word from either John nor Sherlock since John had left the school earlier that day. Greg had passed on the information he'd gleaned from Sherlock, and the total unresponsiveness of John, to both girls. Mary was leaning over from her desk in front of them, ears pricked.

"How could I possibly have heard anything?" Greg scoffed. "You really think they're likely to pop back into school to let us know how they're getting on?"

Mary sighed. "But I'm desperate for some gossip!" she complained, swinging slightly on her chair. "It's so inconsiderate of them."

Molly was quiet, gazing out of the window in thought. Greg watched her, feeling a little sorry for the mousy girl. He had grown rather fond of her over the past year, and he often found himself wishing that she wasn't so obviously keen on his tall dark-haired friend. Curse that guy and his ridiculous cheekbones and sexual magnetism, he thought ruefully.

"Are you okay Molly?" he asked gently.

She snapped back round, and he was relieved to see she was smiling. "Oh yes, yes I'm absolutely fine," she said, and he noted her blush slightly. "It's sweet really, isn't it? They're so obviously made for each other. It's... it's right," she finished, staring at Greg and looking suddenly very bewildered.

Mary rolled her eyes and returned to her desk, wondering if she had a bit more match-making to do before the month was out.

* * *

John was lying back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock was on his side, watching John breathe, a surprisingly relaxing way to spend a few minutes. He'd thought the idea of it dreadfully dull, yet with John, not a lot seemed dull at all.

"So, to conclude," he said softly, not quite having the courage to reach out and stroke his hair. "You have feelings for me that are not platonic. I have feelings for you that are _definitely _not platonic-"

"Mine are definitely not platonic either," John corrected, a small smile teasing at the corner of his mouth that Sherlock could see.

"You want to be in a relationship with me but you're scared that it could ruin our friendship. I... also," said Sherlock, gazing wistfully at the blonde young man now. "And, you love me. Which you admitted last year. So, basically, we have to decide whether it's worth risking our friendship for, or... we could agree not to let it destroy our friendship, if it does all go wrong?"

John laughed, then rolled onto his side to face Sherlock. "Yeah, but that never works," he said.

"It did for you and Mary," Sherlock pointed out. "You two are annoyingly close now."

"Yeah, but we weren't the greatest of friends when we started dating," John counter-argued. "I think I got really lucky with her anyway. We realised we were far better as friends than we were as a couple - although we were only about 14 at the time, who knows what..."

Sherlock glared at John, and he trailed off. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's normally you who makes the inappropriate comments."

Sherlock sighed, before shifting the tiniest amount closer to John on the bed. John's eyes flickered downwards, noticing the closer proximity, before glancing back up at his friend whose face was suddenly right in front of his, eyes boring into him, lips slightly apart and looking distractingly kissable. He closed his eyes briefly, and started when he felt Sherlock's arm wrap around his waist.

"Sherlock..."

"John," he was interrupted. "We can make lists, fors and againsts, pros and cons, until the cows come home. Essentially... do you want this? Us?"

When had he learnt to become so seductive? John groaned, feeling himself edging closer to his friend, still amazed at the power he held over him. Sherlock was an innocent. He was untouched, he knew that for a fact. John had had dates since Mary. He'd not gone too far with any of them, but far further than Sherlock had probably ever considered. John had always wondered why Sherlock had never been keen on anyone that had tried to come onto him over the past couple of years, and had always been secretly relieved when his friend hadn't shown a jot of interest. That had left him hopeful... correctly, as it turned out.

Sherlock's hot breath was now brushing against his neck, and he shuddered. John wouldn't have put it past him to have read up on techniques in some girly teen magazine, but at that moment, he didn't care. Whether Sherlock had learnt this or whether it came naturally, he was a pro. He had John wrapped around his little finger, and he knew it.

His arm still wrapped around John's waist, Sherlock pulled him closer to him, pressing his body up against his, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Their faces were a couple of inches apart, and John sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. Sherlock raised his head slightly to whisper in John's ear.

"John," he breathed. "Do you want to risk it?"

Any slight chance that John might have tried to resist evaporated when he felt Sherlock's teeth nibbling gently, but firmly, at his lobe. He couldn't help the sound that emanated from his throat, and his arm flung around Sherlock, his hand resting on his back and pulling him in closer, his head falling back slightly to expose his neck, which Sherlock, once satisfied with the ear nibbling, ducked his head down to kiss, softly first, and then with a little pressure, causing John to gasp.

"Yes," he muttered. "Yes, please."

Talking was over as Sherlock moved back up to stare at John for a split second, before crashing his lips against his, the kiss so different to their first that there really was no comparison. Sherlock ran his tongue along John's bottom lip, before applying his teeth gently, biting down and drawing it into his own mouth, sucking gently. John's mouth opened in shock and surprise and Sherlock moaned as their tongues brushed against each other. He gripped hold of John, harder, and felt John's hand moving upwards and into his hair, tugging lightly at the dark curls, which only served to spur him on more. He pushed against John, needing more contact, and he felt John smile against him as he flicked his tongue over Sherlock's mouth, pulling his head closer and swinging a leg over him to gain more purchase.

They stayed that way for several minutes, hands roaming over clothes, neither daring to do more than that, their lips and tongues exploring each others, and John's hand stroking Sherlock's hair which felt so alluring. They parted every so often for breath, getting lost in each other's eyes, before returning to kissing, both feeling unable to let go of the other, both terrified that this was a dream and if they released then it would all be over.

Eventually, John pulled back, lying back down on the bed, shock and amazement etched into his features. Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow, and reached out to stroke John's face, feeling unusually sentimental and affectionate about his friend. He wasn't used to the feelings that John brought forward in him, and he was a heady mixture of frightened and excited.

"Well," John said eventually, eyes flickering up to Sherlock's who was staring intently at him, his fingers resting on John's cheek. "No going back from that really, is there?"

Sherlock grinned, a little devilishly, and it took John's breath away.

"Were we really that close anyway?" he asked. John laughed, a beautiful sound to Sherlock's ears, and lifted his head suddenly, grabbing the pillow from underneath him and whacking Sherlock with it before he had time to react. Sherlock fell back into the bed, laughing too, and John took the opportunity to climb on top of him. He stared down at his friend, mesmerised by the look on his face, and it was his turn to gently stroke first his hair, and then let his hand move to those beautiful cheekbones, touching them so tenderly that Sherlock shuddered.

"We're not going to mess this up," John whispered, letting his hand run down the side of Sherlock's face and cupping his chin. "This is it now, okay? Me and you."

Sherlock smiled, genuinely happy, and John realised he'd never seen his face so care-free before. It tugged at his heart as Sherlock brought his hand up to lay on top of John's. "Me and you," he echoed, as John leant down to kiss him again.

**This story is likely to be another 5 chapters, some of which will include more than one year. You might have guessed already, but the boys are going to be embarking on a bit of separation, and it will get a little bit angsty I'm afraid. I can promise you that it will end happily, because I'm a sucker for a happy ending. I will also be returning to Mary/Molly/Greg, they won't be forgotten, although obviously they are not the main part of the story. I update pretty regularly so I would hope to have this fic complete within the next fortnight. **

**Please please review. They make my day. And constructive criticism is always welcome too :) **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Erm... I'm sorry.**

_September 14th, 1994_

The lady who answered the door - Molly presumed it was his mother - eyed them both up and down critically before pasting a smile on her face. "Can I help you?"

She felt a reassuring hand at the small of her back and leaned into it slightly, before adopting a hopeful grin, nervously lifting one foot and rubbing the back of her other leg with it. "Hello, Mrs... Holmes. We were wondering if Sherlock was about?"

A sigh, and she moved out of the way to let them both in, waving her hand up the staircase just behind them. "He's moping around up there," she said, looking suddenly rather tired as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't understand it myself, it's just John. What's so special about him anyway?"

Greg raised an eyebrow at Molly, as they both realised that Sherlock must have inherited some of his emotions, or lack thereof, from his maternal side. "Thanks, Mrs. Holmes," Greg said, as they removed their shoes politely before ascending the staircase.

"Tell him he needs to eat something at some point today," she called after them. Molly heard her mutter "Ridiculous" under her breath as they made their way across the landing and towards what was obviously Sherlock's bedroom.

Greg paused at the door, glanced at Molly, and then lifted his hand to knock, but before he could do so, the door was pulled open and they were both met with the rather startling vision of a Sherlock who, with his red-rimmed eyes, had quite clearly been crying. Molly immediately tried to remember experiencing this before, in the few years she'd known him, but there was nothing. She had no idea how to deal with it.

"The last thing I need right now is a display of a disgustingly happy couple in my bedroom," he growled at them both. "Why are you here?"

"John asked us to keep an eye on you," Greg said. "He knew you'd be... like this. I didn't believe him, but clearly he knows you best."

"Of course he knows me best," Sherlock spat, turning on his heel and collapsing dramatically onto his bed. The two of them followed him in, both still slightly in shock at his demeanour. Rude was something they were used to with him, but distraught... not so much.

"Sherlock, we're all off soon," Molly said in as soothing a voice as she could. "John just had to go a bit earlier, but me and you, we'll be going to Cambridge next week." She tried to keep her voice light. "And Greg... we'll be separated too, you know."

Greg smiled slightly at Molly's slight diversion. "Yeah alright, I'm not off to the University of Brainboxes like you two clever dicks," he said, poking her lightly in the ribs.

"You're not off to any University at all," Sherlock sniffed.

"Listen, you, I don't have to come round here and listen to you cry about how much you miss your boyfriend," he retorted, perching on the edge of the bed and awkwardly patting him on the shoulder. "But that's what mates do, and they certainly do not mock them for going into a rather safe, secure profession."

Sherlock snorted, but didn't say anything.

Molly sat down on the other side of Sherlock and, rather less awkwardly, stroked his hair a little. Greg tensed at that, still very aware of Molly's previous infatuation with the dark-haired moping git, despite her assurances that she was very much over that. As if she suddenly realised, she looked up, catching his gaze, and smiled warmly at him, then rolled her eyes at their ridiculous friend.

"Look, Sherlock, John isn't going to forget you. For god's sake, you two are so close it makes me feel slightly nauseous," Greg said, trying to jolly him along a little. "I mean, I'm delighted that you both figured it out, and I guess you do make a cute couple, but seriously, if I have to see you making cow eyes at each other one more..."

Molly shook her head slightly and Greg stopped, noticing that Sherlock looked suddenly even more devastated than before.

"Hey," Molly said, grabbing his hand. "Sherlock, he really won't forget about you. It's John. He adores you. You can't honestly think he'll..."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't think he'll forget me," he said, gazing at her with actual, real tears in his eyes. "I just didn't realise that being without him would be so hard."

* * *

_September 14th, 1996_

"What the fuck is this?!"

His stash. His secret, hidden stash. How the hell had he found that?

"Have you been going through my things?"

"Molly told me she was worried about you. What the hell, Sherlock?"

He stood agape, hands clenching into fists, looking around somewhere, anywhere, just to escape from John's gaze. It was... betrayal. Hurt. Disappointment. Worry. He didn't deserve any of that, he knew it.

"I... I guess I was too weak."

John stared at him, and dropped the bag. "Sherlock, I... I can't..."

"Can't what? Can't deal with it? Can't deal with me? This is who I am, John. I get bored. This degree, it's boring. Life is boring without you in it. I never see you, I miss you, I only have this..."

John threw his hands up in... horror? Impatience? His skills were all off, this was all wrong. He shouldn't have found it.

"You are actually blaming me - _me! _- for your... dalliance with cocaine? Because I dared go off and do something I wanted to do, something I've wanted to do my whole life? Thinking we were strong enough, we could get through this, we could get through anything because fuck it, we're Sherlock and John, and we're strong, goddamnit. And then you resort to _this?!" _

Sherlock stared, opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

"I spent every sodding minute I had over the summer with you," John said through gritted teeth, getting a step closer to Sherlock. "I have visited you, or had you visit me, practically every weekend since we've been separated. I've phoned you. I've written you letters - neither of which you did in return, by the way," he pointed out. "And you have the cheek, the audacity, to blame _me _for your frankly selfish decision to start taking drugs?!"

He was right. He was absolutely right. Sherlock stared at the floor, hands now behind his back. The one person in the whole world who had loved him, cared for him, wanted to be with him - and he'd completely let him down.

"You don't deserve this," Sherlock whispered. "You deserve so much better than me."

Silence. It was worse than the shouting.

"I have been a... frankly dreadful boyfriend," Sherlock said, inhaling deeply before straightening his back and doing John the justice of looking him square in the eye. "You deserve someone who treats you the way you should be treated."

He noted the twitch in John's eye, the slightly panicked look spreading over his face, noticed him open his mouth slightly.

"I'm sorry John," he said, walking towards him, closing the gap between them and kissing him lightly on the cheek. "Please, go home, get ready for going away, and forget about me."

John grabbed his arm. "No, Sherlock," he said, urgently, tugging at his sleeve. "No, I'm sorry I lost my temper. We can work through this. I can help you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling John's hand on his arm, savouring that feeling. His mind skimmed over the past three years - the first year, the most glorious year of his life. Being with John after all those years of yearning, longing, and wondering. Being able to just be together, naturally, and their friends being so supportive. Then with the second year came the pain of separation, but he muddled through. They both did, and John was right - they had seen each other every weekend. But the weeks in between were too hard on Sherlock. He'd spent them curled up on his bed in his flatshare, refusing to associate with anyone else. They'd tried to encourage him to come out, but had eventually given up, and left him to it. He couldn't bear not being able to contact John immediately, and when he did see him he clung to him possessively, not wanting him to speak to anyone else or waste any time doing anything other than being shut up in his bedroom - or John's, if he visited him, which was very rare. John did all the running, he realised that now, while he did all the demanding. He was selfish, rude, and spared very little thought for what John needed or wanted.

The third year had been full of arguments, although still John continued to visit him, refused to give up. They would share some happy times, but it was mostly angry rows, both of them frustrated at their situation, even John. They had lived in each other's pockets since they were five years old, they had seen each other every day. Neither of them had coped well with the change, but while John managed to get on with his life during the weeks - Sherlock was bitterly aware of this - he had not. His work had suffered, he knew no one by their first name - not completely unusual for him, but he hadn't even managed to get the correct first initial for many people - and he was horribly miserable. He took it out on John whenever he saw him, and John, to his credit, fought back whilst still persevering with this relationship.

Sherlock felt like he was seeing things clearly for the first time in quite a while. He was not good for John. He never had been, and never would be.

"No," he said, removing John's hand. "No, you can't John."

John faltered. "Wha... what about... what about what I said? That day, when everything... when we... you know. I said, this is it. And you agreed. Me and you. Remember?"

Sherlock shook his head, feeling tears forming, tears that he hastily brushed away. "It wasn't it, John," he said. "You can, and will, meet someone who is far better for you than I could ever even wish to be." He couldn't bear to say the words. "I... I want you to go now, John."

John nodded, his lips pinched thinly together. "Fine, Sherlock," he said, sighing. "I'll go, just now. Leave you to think about this. You know this isn't what you want. And I'll be back, tomorrow," he promised, pressing another kiss to his cheek before leaving the room, taking with him, Sherlock noted, the clear pouch.

"It isn't what I want," Sherlock whispered, hearing his front door slam shut. "But it's what you need."

* * *

_September 14th, 2000_

Four years. Four fucking years. John Watson was angry. It had been four long, horrific years since he'd last seen Sherlock, since Greg and Molly had last heard from him. And now no one knew where the hell he was.

Well, someone knew, John thought bitterly. In fact, he guessed there were three people who knew full well where he was. But they weren't telling.

He'd returned, the next day, like he'd promised. He'd returned, to be met with a cold stare from Sherlock's older brother. A refusal to let him in. And a letter. A fucking letter.

John had it still, somewhere in his collection of _Random Shit that Sherlock Gave Me, _most of that collection tending to be of the more sentimental, amusing "gifts" that he'd received from his friend, and then lover, over the years. That letter, the one that broke his heart in two, had only been read once, but he remembered every word.

_Please, don't look for me. I'm a fraud. I don't deserve you, I don't deserve your love. Find someone who loves you unconditionally, who will make you happy. I will only ever bring you pain. _

He had screamed. He had shouted. He had gone to punch the immovable force that was Mycroft Holmes, but had stopped himself at the last second - _how would that help? _- and had just begged. _Tell me where he is._

_I cannot._

_Why not?_

_This is the right decision at the right time._

Bollocks. John had glared at him angrily, Mycroft had raised one eyebrow. The younger man had thought he'd detected a glimmer of pity, of sorrow, but if he had, it was gone in an instant.

Never mind, he'd thought, as he'd had made his way home, hands shoved in pockets, unable to process what had just happened. Molly would see him, next week. Molly would talk to him, make him see sense.

But he couldn't have said he was completely surprised when Molly had phoned him, voice catching slightly, as she explained he wasn't there. He hadn't shown up. When she had enquired, she'd been told he'd dropped out. No explanation.

John had returned to the Holmes' residence, demanding answers. He'd been let in, had been offered tea, which he had refused. Mycroft had admitted that Sherlock had problems which he had only recently discovered - something that had apparently vexed him. Those problems were, apparently, being taken care of. But he could tell him no more than that. He had nodded his head slightly when John had asked, hollowly, if the problems were drug-related.

Two weeks later, he'd been surprised to receive a letter from Mycroft, but the news had made his heart stop in his chest. Sherlock had disappeared. Mycroft still wouldn't tell John where he had been, but he had wanted to inform him that he was now just as much in the dark as John was - unless John had something to do with it?

John had visited the following weekend. Mycroft was pacing, his parents, for once in their lives, looked shocked and worried. The elder Holmes brother said that he had definitely not left the country - his position in the government, even back then, had been high enough for him to have apparently put the borders on full alert immediately - but aside from that, he had no clue. He had assured John that he had people on the lookout for him. John asked if he meant the police. There was no nod this time.

A month later, he had received another letter. The situation was resolved. And that was it. No more explanations, and when John had tried to visit again, he had been turned away by someone he did not recognise. He still went back, first of all monthly, then every few months. He learnt that Mycroft was in a position of power within the government. He learnt that Mrs. Holmes was actually not too horrific when you got to know her. He learnt that Mr. Holmes was keen on gardening.

But he never learnt where Sherlock was.

He sighed, lying back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock was on his mind, constantly. Four years was a bloody long time to think about someone who had made his intentions horrendously clear. John didn't buy for one minute that Sherlock had stopped loving him, as Mycroft had once callously suggested, but he knew that Sherlock had genuinely believed that John was better off without him. It tore him apart, knowing this. But what else could he do? He needed to start getting on with his own life, meeting more new people, and trying desperately to put thoughts of Sherlock to the back of his mind. It made him feel ill - desperately ill - but it was the only way he was going to survive.

* * *

The house absolutely stank, and Constable Greg Lestrade wondered just how long they would have to spend searching through this absolute pit of a place. There was drug paraphernalia littered all over the place, rubbish strewn over the floor, and he desperately wanted to get home and fling himself into the shower. He felt filthy just standing in the hovel, and he glanced at his colleague, who looked just as disgusted as he was.

"You check upstairs, I'll search around down here," Ryan said, and Greg nodded, hoping that the bedrooms might be slightly less contaminated than what was presumably once a living room was. Other people were filing in behind him, and he took the stairs two at a time, reaching the top as quickly as he could. They were looking for other people - hopefully not bodies, Greg thought glumly. The amount of crap that was downstairs was enough to kill several people.

The first bedroom was empty, and looked surprisingly tidy, Greg thought. He had a quick scoot around, but there was nothing immediately obvious in there that was in any way untoward. He darted back out and glanced into the second room, rolling his eyes. Someone was sprawled out on the bed, long dark, matted hair covering his face. A quick glance told him that he was breathing, breaths steady. Just completely wasted then, probably, but not in any immediate danger. He marched into the room and prodded the junkie, hard.

"Come on then son," he said, assessing that the guy lying in front of him was no more than 19, judging by the thin, scrawny body, the clothes, the general scene before him. Still, it felt odd calling someone who was no more than five years younger than him "son".

A grunt, and very little movement. Greg sighed, and shook the lad, hard.

"Come on. Downstairs. Now."

The young man jumped, suddenly, and Greg could see through the hair that eyes were opening, staring intently through the mess of dark curls. A hand raised, and they were pushed away.

Now it was Greg's turn to stare. Bloodshot eyes with tiny pupils, white, paper-thin skin, shaking hands, dry lips. But unmistakeably...

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

**Woe. I didn't enjoy writing that. Well, I did, because I know what's coming, but I didn't. It'll start to get a bit better now, promise! Please review if you so wish, it would make me oh so happy. **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Okay, I was going to cut this chapter off earlier on than I did, but I love you lot so much, for your lovely reviews and favourites and follows etc, that I decided to be a bit kinder and carry on further. It still ends on a cliffhanger, but it's a _nicer _one. You'll see. Anyway, thank you for your continued support, I really hope you like this. :)**

**Slight Warning: Minor character death. **

* * *

_September 14th, 2001_

"He'll join the army, you know."

Sherlock glared at his companion across the table, sipping at her cup of coffee. She smiled at him, but he did not return the gesture, continuing to watch her, angrily.

"Once he's finished his training, he'll join. I'm utterly convinced of it. His mentality is that of a fighter, with the added bonus of being able to heal."

"And this concerns me, why?" he asked bitterly.

Mary put her cup down, and leaned in slightly. "There's going to be a war, Sherlock. Have you been watching the news recently? John will join up, he'll go out to Afghanistan, and... well, I don't really need to spell it out, do I?"

"Again, you have failed to answer my question. Why on earth would that concern me? He can do as he pleases."

Mary frowned at him. "It doesn't concern you that John is going to risk his life and you might never see him again?"

"I haven't seen him for..." Sherlock paused, pretending to count, as if he didn't remind himself every minute of every hour of _every sodding day. _"...Five years. I hardly think-"

"Speaking of which," Mary commented, interrupting him, picking up her cup again and leaning back in her chair, regarding her friend. "Are you going to see him? Are you going to tell him that you're back in the land of the living? I'm really not fond of these secret trysts we're having, Sherlock. People will talk."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, reaching for his own drink, but not quite picking it up. He felt the warmth of the mug slowly heating his hands, and he gazed into the liquid as if expecting to find answers within.

"Greg hates it too. As does Molly. Why won't you tell him? What's the worst that could happen?"

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "I really, really don't want to talk about this just now, okay?" he asked, his tone almost pleading. "Or ever, in fact."

A silence fell between them, and Mary rolled her eyes. She was delighted that Greg had found Sherlock last year. They all had been. He'd made them promise not to tell John and they'd agreed, presuming he wanted to wait until he'd sorted himself out, cleaned up his act. That took time, many months of hard work, and they all supported him through it, whilst managing to hide their activities from their doctor-in-training friend, who they rarely saw anyway. Mary knew that he wasn't quite clean yet, but the heroin had stopped, finally, and she was beginning to see her old friend emerging from the haze. He'd started making deductions again. He'd given Greg ideas about puzzling cases which had often proved incredibly insightful. He'd moved back in with his family, who all seemed so grateful to the three of them for taking care of their lost lamb, even Mycroft. But, whenever the subject of John had been brought up, he'd refused to even consider it. He didn't talk about him, didn't ask about him. Didn't seem to want to know.

"Sherlock," she said suddenly. "Your original issue was that you didn't think you were good enough for John because of the drugs. But they... that's all getting better now, isn't it, hmm? So... don't you think it..."

"I said, I don't want to talk about it." He rose from the table, grabbing his long dark coat and wrapping it around him. His eyes blazed at her, startling her briefly. "I'll see you later."

And with that he was gone, slipping away out of the cafe. Mary sighed, finished off her coffee and placed the cup next to Sherlock's untouched one, before grabbing her phone to send a quick message.

* * *

Molly picked up her phone as it bleeped at her, and scanned the text, sighing, before putting it back down. They'd decided, the three of them. He had to be told. They'd hoped that Sherlock would see sense, but clearly that wasn't going to happen.

"Greg, put the kettle on for us, would you?" she said, tucking her feet under herself as she sat back in her armchair. John was sat opposite on the sofa, looking exhausted. She smiled softly at him, not sure how to begin.

Her fiancé rubbed her shoulder as he left the room, knowing that she wanted to do this herself. Greg would be there for backup, if John got upset, but Molly was the meekest, calmest of them all and they had both agreed that John was least likely to get angry with her. She was still nervous, and she bit her lip, as John glanced up at her. He could tell she wanted to speak to him, she was sure.

"What's up, Molls?" he asked, confirming that thought.

She breathed in through her nose, tilted her head to one side, and quickly ran through her head all the possible ways she could break this news to him. Quick, like ripping off a plaster, or a little build-up to it? She decided with the former.

"WeknowwhereSherlockis."

John blinked at her, several times. He crinkled his nose, opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked away, then back to her. All the time, she felt like cowering, terrified of what his reaction would be.

"You... you know where Sherlock is?"

She nodded, a quick, shaky nod. "We've known for a year, John."

"You've-" He stopped, pinching his lips together, his eyes set firmly on hers. He was angry.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "He asked us not to tell you. Do you... do you want details?"

He nodded, shifting in his seat, leaning against the arm of the sofa. Waiting.

"Right. Err, well. Greg was... on a case, last year. They found a drug den, they were searching it, and Sherlock... he was in a room upstairs, completely out of it. But he... he recognised Greg, straight away, and he went with him to the station quite... quite meekly, apparently. He wasn't in a great state, John... he'd been living rough for quite some time..."

John nodded, but didn't say anything.

"We've helped him, all three of us, to... sort himself out, as it were. He's... he's doing quite well. He's back with his family..."

"I stopped visiting them last year," John said suddenly. "What a coincidence."

Molly glanced at him. "Err, yes. It was."

John laughed bitterly. "So, he wants to see me now, does he?"

Greg had returned to the room, holding two mugs of tea. He raised his eyebrows at Molly, who wasn't looking at him, keeping her eyes fixed on their friend.

"No John.. that's the problem... he still doesn't want us to tell you... he doesn't want you to know..."

"Enough!" John exclaimed, standing up suddenly. "So all three of you have lied to me for a whole year, and Sherlock still wants absolutely nothing to do with me? Goddamnit, you're all so... you were all supposed to be my friends..."

"We are your friends, John," Molly cried, standing up too. Greg carefully placed the mugs on a table and stood alongside her. "We were put in a horrible position..."

"No," he shouted, pointing a finger at them both. "You agreed to be put in a horrible position. You didn't have to go along with it. You could have told me. You _knew _how worried I was about him!"

She sighed, nodding, admitting defeat. He was right.

John raised his hands to his head, clasping them together and leaning back slightly into them. Exasperation and anger were evident on his face. There was no relief that his friend was okay. He was just so, so angry. She hated herself, and Greg, and Mary, so much at that moment, to have continued their friend's pain for all that time.

"John..."

"Bugger off, the lot of you," he cried, and Molly took a step back, hearing the anguish in his voice. "I can't wait till I get out of this sodding country and away from all of you."

Molly turned her head desperately to Greg as John fled the room, and Greg followed him out into the hallway, as he grabbed his coat. "Listen, mate..."

"I. Am. Not. Your. Mate," he snarled, pulling it on quickly and giving Greg a look that sent shivers up his spine. "No 'mate' would do this. I honestly thought that maybe, out of everyone, I could trust you, Greg. But you're just as bad as him."

Greg opened his mouth, floundering for a second. "John, I know he still loves you," he tried. "It's bloody evident to anyone around. The girls can see it too. He wants to protect you, that's all it is. Maybe if you spoke to him. He really does still love you."

Another bitter laugh. "Clearly not enough," he said. He opened the door, and was gone.

* * *

_September 14th, 2006_

She could hardly believe her eyes. There, stood in front of her, dressed in smart black trousers, polished shoes, a fitted, dark red shirt...

"Sherlock?"

A small, tentative grin. "Hi... Mrs Watson."

She opened the door wider, allowing him to come in, and he sighed with relief. The first hurdle was overcome. His smile grew a little wider as he stepped inside, gazing around himself. The decor of the house hadn't changed in over ten years. The photos hanging in the hall were still the same. He removed his shoes, as she watched him, and he could feel her gaze on his back. When he turned around, he noticed the wetness around her eyes, the tear threatening to fall down her cheek, and before he could react, she embraced him, holding him close to her.

"Oh, Sherlock..."

He patted her awkwardly on the back, before she let go, pulling back a little and smiling at him. A sad smile, a smile that he could tell so much from... probably best not to bombard her with unpleasant deductions right away, he thought to himself.

"Come through to the living room," she said, opening the door and following him in. This room hadn't changed much either - a few new photos, and a couple that were conspicuous in their absence. He couldn't help himself as he sat down, doing a quick second check before announcing "You got divorced."

Jane smiled, perching on the edge of the armchair. "Did someone tell you, or are your powers of observation just as good as before?"

He smiled, not bothering to answer. He knew that she would know the answer to that.

"What brings you here, Sherlock?" she asked, glancing surreptitiously at a photo on the mantelpiece of her two favourite young boys, immortalised forever in a 20-year-old photograph, hugging and grinning up at the camera. Sherlock noticed the look though, and felt a tug jolt through his heart - something he had managed to protect so well over the last few years, yet he had guessed that he would not be immune to all the emotions that coming here would bring forth.

He inhaled, trying to collect his thoughts. "I need to know that John is... okay," he said, raising his eyes to hers. "After he cut off contact with everyone else, and stopped visiting Mycroft, I struggled to find out anything about him. Mycroft has... his sources," he said carefully, and Jane raised an eyebrow at that but didn't say anything. "But I want... need.. to hear from you, that he is doing okay."

He heard a faint miaow, and noticed a cat saunter into the room. It wandered towards Jane and leapt up into her lap, and she stroked it absent-mindedly.

"John is... okay," she said, practically repeating Sherlock's tone and words. "Okay is probably the best way I can describe him, if I'm honest. And I think you want me to be honest," she said, smiling slightly at him. "Don't you?"

He nodded.

She sighed, rubbing the cat's belly, and gazed up intently at the photograph. "You two really were made for each other, you know that, don't you?" she said sadly. "It was obvious to everyone. When you finished things, I wanted to come after you and bash your heads together. John was so devastated, Sherlock. What on earth were you doing?"

He hung his head. "I thought he'd be better without me," he whispered.

"You're a bloody idiot. You're a genius, I'll grant you that - but you're an idiot."

He couldn't help but smile at her mild insult, knowing, finally, that she was right. And also knowing that he was too late.

"He wasn't better without you, dear. He went to pieces. And then, when he found out that the others had lied to him for a year - a whole year, Sherlock - he couldn't cope. He felt completely and utterly let down."

Sherlock braced himself.

"He's okay," Jane finished softly. "He's alive, he's busy, he's... well, he's in Afghanistan just now, as you probably know full well. But he's safe, or as safe as he can be." She sighed, and pursed her lips. "I want him home, obviously. But I'm so very, very proud of him." She turned to face Sherlock, and he felt a chill as her eyes bore into his. "He still loves you, Sherlock. I know he does."

Sherlock nodded one final time, then stood. "Please, Jane. Please tell him..."

She waited, expectantly.

"... that I miss him." He blinked back what felt like threatening tears, before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

* * *

_September 14th, 2010_

John was starting to feel like September 14th was destined to always be a very important date in his life.

He couldn't believe he had only just realised that so many huge events had happened on this date over the years. It was a huge coincidence, nothing more, and there were plenty of major things that had happened on other days too... such as being shot... but still. The day of his first kiss with Sherlock. The last day he saw Sherlock. The day they met, he was almost convinced, was September 14th.

The last major 14th September event he was aware of was his mother's death.

Four years previously. He'd been informed, had somehow managed to get home for her funeral, before heading straight back into the warzone. She'd collapsed at home, on her own. Massive heart attack. She'd have been dead before she hit the floor, he'd been assured. Hopefully she would have suffered no pain.

John couldn't bear to think of that time too much. His mum was the only person he had fully trusted at that point. He had made friends in the army, but he had never felt as close to any of them as he had done to his old school mates - and they had betrayed him so badly. He didn't trust himself to make friends anymore. He had relied on his mother for support. When she died, his world crumbled. He returned to the army, withdrew into himself, and ignored the outside world. For as long as he could.

Until he got shot.

He sat sullenly on the park bench, watching the world go by, leaning on his crutch. People going about their lives. Couples, families, kids, workers, all completely oblivious to the crippled ex-soldier watching them all, wishing he could be as blasé as them. Wishing he had someone.

_Wishing he had Sherlock._

It was crazy. He hadn't seen him in sixteen years. He couldn't bear to get in touch with him. He would have moved on, he would have maybe met someone else. He would be hanging around with Mary, Molly and Greg, laughing about silly old John Watson. They had all grown up and got on with their lives, John included, but he had never forgotten them. He couldn't deny that at times he yearned for the days of their youth, carefree, happy, together. Not just him and Sherlock, but all five of them.

But yes, just him and Sherlock too.

He sighed heavily, leaning on his crutch, attempting to get up, walk back to his poxy little bedsit, and try to make sense of the life he was now destined to live; injured, crippled, no use to the army anymore.

* * *

It was a cold day, and Mike pulled his jacket tight around him, wondering what had possessed him to leave the warmth of the hospital. Oh yes, the snack van parked up on the other side of the park. He pressed on, more determinedly, until he caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Stopping suddenly, he stared as he recognised the face of his old training buddy, John Watson.

This was... possibly... too good to be true. Or it could be a complete disaster.

"John?"

He turned as he stood, his eyes crinkled up, trying to make out who this fat man was approaching him.

"It's Mike, Mike Stanford!" He held out a hand and grinned as recognition flooded across John's face. "Yeah, I got fat. What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were getting shot at somewhere abroad!"

John raised an eyebrow at him. "Well... I got shot, Mike," he deadpanned, eyes flickering to his shoulder and then holding up his cane. "And the limp doesn't help much, either."

Of course. Mike shot a quick grin at him, and beckoned him to sit back down on the bench, easing himself onto it next to him. He breathed in, slowly, scarcely daring to believe the possible outcomes this day could bring for two of his friends.

Of _course _Mike had realised who Sherlock was, the moment he'd met him. Who else had a name as ridiculous as that? And his mannerisms were exactly as John had described, if not more pronounced, when they had been studying together all those years ago. The man that had broken John's heart was now a frequent visitor at Barts, where he was tolerated by most, befriended by Mike and, obviously, a close friend of Molly's. It had felt like a very small world indeed when Mike had realised the link they both had to his old friend John - a man he had lost touch with when he had joined the army, but who he had had very fond memories of. As he remembered the animosity between the group, as described by John, he had, perhaps wisely, decided not to inform either Sherlock or Molly of his friendship with John - not that either of them had ever mentioned him. But Mike had felt sorry for Sherlock, despite what he had been told about him. He was clearly a haunted man, and although he was very close to Molly and DI Lestrade, Mike knew that Sherlock rarely socialised with them outside their working relationship. He'd tried to encourage him to come out of his shell a little, to join him for a drink in the pub on several occasions, but Sherlock had always declined. If Mike had pushed it, Sherlock would normally shut him up with a coarse deduction on how many pizzas Mike had already consumed that week, and Mike would retreat, feeling defeated.

John was looking at Mike, a puzzled expression on his face. "So... how have you been?" he asked, clutching nervously at his crutch.

"Yeah, good. Teaching at Barts now. Loathsome job, really. So envious of all the bright young minds." He sighed wistfully. "Remember when we were students, John? Such happy days."

John grimaced, and Mike patted his knee, wincing a little as he realised that was rather a daft thing to say to someone who had been devastated by the breakup of first a relationship and then two close friendships during that time. "Sorry. That was..."

"No, it's fine," John insisted, rubbing a hand across his face.

"So, what are you up to now? Staying in London?"

John laughed. "No way I can afford that, mate. Not on an army pension."

Mike's eyes widened. "Well... how about a flatmate? Share the rent? Make a new friend?"

A slight shake of the head. "Come on Mike... who would want me as a flatmate? An ex-army doctor, down on his luck, depressed, no job, boring... I'm not exactly a catch, am I?"

Oh, this was too good. This was far too good.

Or it could be disastrous. What if they... what if they _killed each other? _

Mike had no idea what the reaction would be, but he knew that he had to find out. He had to at least attempt to play match-maker... or re-match-maker. He would always regret it if he didn't.

"You know," he said hesitantly. "You're the second person to say that to me today. The first bit, anyway. I don't know any other depressed ex-army doctors, I'm afraid."

John nodded, and Mike could tell he was interested. "So, who was the first?" he asked.

Mike grinned. "Come back to work with me. I'll... I'll introduce you."

* * *

Mike knew that he needed to avoid Molly if at all possible. She would know where Sherlock was just now, but he couldn't risk going to ask her. It would give the game away. No, Mike would have to use his own deduction skills. Sherlock had been carrying out an investigation in the morgue that morning... chances were he'd be upstairs, in the computer labs, writing something up. He could feel his heart pumping that little bit faster, and he felt himself getting frustrated at having to slow down for John.

"Hey, Mike - are you alright? You look..." John assessed him for a few seconds, before continuing. "You look fucking terrified, mate. What's going on?"

Mike laughed shrilly, and beckoned John towards the lift. "Nothing, nothing's going on. Just trying to think where Sh... where my friend might be."

John raised his eyebrow, noticing Mike censoring himself, but didn't comment on it. Everything seemed a little weird. He considered his thoughts from earlier. September 14th. A monumentous date in his life, constantly. He clutched his cane tighter, and hurried over as fast as he could to the lift. Something felt... exciting. The air felt tense, as ridiculous as that sounded in his head.

Once they were out of the lift again, Mike led John down a corridor, aware that John was a few paces behind him - probably a good thing, whilst he tried to find the mad detective. The first lab was empty. The second lab had a few students in. The third - aha! Curly dark-haired mop, slim figure, dark coat. Back to the door. Definitely him.

He opened the door quietly, glancing back to see that John was still quite a way behind him and peering into one of the other doors, amazed at the changes in the hospital in such a short space of time.

"You've brought someone to see me."

Mike swung his head back towards Sherlock, who still had his back to him. "You're back early from your lunch break, you've headed straight to find me, and after what I said to you earlier about needing a flatmate, you've found someone who you think might be ideal," he continued in his low baritone. "Plus, I heard two sets of footsteps." Still not turning around. Mike sensed John walking towards him. He was still stood in the open doorway, between the two men, stood so John couldn't quite see who was speaking as he approached.

"That's right," Mike said, his voice cracking slightly. John glanced at him curiously, hearing the break in his speech, and Mike crept forward, allowing John to stand in the doorway. He didn't dare look at him, but he heard the sharp intake of breath, he felt the hand on his bicep, as if needing support, and he gulped as Sherlock continued to talk, his back still turned to the silent pair.

"I play the violin, is that a problem for you? All hours of the night, helps me think. And I can be quite untidy, apparently. I like doing experiments wherever the mood strikes and I sometimes don't speak for days at a time-"

"You've not changed much then."

Sherlock stopped talking. His head snapped up, his hands clenched into fists, but Mike could tell it was through shock, not anger. The silence, the period of time that nobody moved after that, felt like it stretched on for days. Mike blinked, and risked a look at John, who was staring steadfastly at Sherlock's back. His chin jutted out, his head lifted up. He looked... determined. There was no other word to describe him.

"Here's your coffee Sherlock, I'll just JESUS!"

All three men jolted and spun around to see Molly, stood in the doorway, still miraculously holding a polystyrene cup and staring directly at John. She stuttered, handed the cup to Mike, turned on her heel and practically fled down the corridor. Mike bit his lip, wondering if this was possibly the worst idea he'd ever had.

John took a deep breath and turned back. Mike did the same, and noted the look in Sherlock's eyes. It scared him. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen in the cold, emotionless detective before. He could barely begin to describe it, but he dared to hope as he could see no anger, no resentment, no abject horror. Looking back to John, all he could see was determination and... yes, there was the tiniest smile that he just could not bite back. Mike felt immediately relieved, and sat down heavily on a stool that had been rather conveniently left just behind him.

"John." The word carried so much emotion, it startled Mike. This was a Sherlock he had never witnessed before, something so alien to the closed off genius that he'd known for a few years now, that he was slightly nervous to be near him. But John didn't seem surprised. The memory of John, of their relationship, was clearly the event that had haunted Sherlock, and had made him the way he was.

"Hi."

Mike suddenly realised that he probably shouldn't be there. It had been so many years - sixteen, maybe? There was likely to be some sort of argument, he was sure of it. He also knew that both of them would work out that he was aware of the relationship between them all along, and didn't fancy bearing the brunt of either of their rages.

"I'll leave you two to get... reacquainted," he risked, but neither of them reacted. Neither of them even seemed to realise he was still there, and, with a hopeful feeling lingering in his mind, he slipped out of the lab, leaving the two men staring at each other.

**September 14th 2010 will be continued in the next chapter, don't worry, and then there will be one or two chapters after that. We're reaching the end. I hope you're still with me. Please review, they will make me smile on what has been a very sad day for... well, anyone who loves great comedy, I guess. x**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I hope you all like. **

* * *

_September 14th, 2010 cont._

Everything had slowed down - the ticking of the clock up high on the wall to his right, the beat of his heart, the thumping in his head that had begun the moment he had heard his voice. That voice, the voice he hadn't heard in sixteen long, painful years. That voice, which sounded so hoarse, so full of pain as the words pierced his psyche, the instant recognition of the voice that had changed so much, yet was still the same. His hands clenched, he froze, he breathed.. he was still breathing, wasn't he? And he was definitely awake, wasn't he? He would have gone to pinch himself had it not been for Molly's sudden entrance, jolting them all out of the reverie they found themselves in, and as he whipped round, his heart leapt and that feeling, _that feeling that he had missed so much, _in the pit of his stomach... it was back, it was there. It really was him. John was there, his back now to him, all three of them staring at Molly's frightened, panicked face, all three watching as she handed the cup to Mike and fled like a terrified kitten.

Then he turned. He turned and Sherlock's heart sank a little. The pain, the trauma he had suffered over the last few years - it was etched in every crease on his face, in the slight downturn of his lips, in the worry lines on his forehead. In the way he held himself, with that cane... what the hell was he doing with that thing?... in the dullness of his hair even. He looked rough. He looked beaten. But he was still, irrefutably, inexplicably, John. His... His John. _His John?_

He heard his own voice uttering his name, felt the word ghost over his lips, caught a fleeting glimpse of the look in John's eye and saw him shift slightly, suddenly unsure, the sure-fire determination diminished infinitesimally.

"Hi."

He stared. He couldn't move, he could barely blink. He didn't want to close his eyes and open them to find him gone. Life wouldn't be so cruel to play such a mean trick, but he didn't want to risk it, just in case. He was aware of the laboratory door closing softly behind John, and realised with a start that Mike had left the room.

John still stood, despite the cane, and Sherlock tilted his head, making some quick deductions, knowing John would recognise the look but not caring at that point. What could he read? Afghanistan, he knew that anyway, but even if he hadn't, John's entire body language was giving off military signs left, right and centre. He wasn't sitting down, despite being able to - this could be down to being just as shocked as Sherlock and unable to move, but he could tell that the pain, if there even was any, was not troubling him too much. Psychosomatic, then. The way he favoured one arm suggested the other was injured - Sherlock felt his heart tug as he considered the possibility that John had suffered. Possibility... it was a certainty. He'd clearly been discharged, unable to fight, to work, anymore.

"Where's your injury?" he blurted out.

John eyed him for a few seconds. "Shoulder," he said eventually. "I got shot."

"Badly?"

The doctor pursed his lips. "Badly enough."

John was in London, staying in London, so he wasn't wanting to move in with Harriet - not that that surprised Sherlock, the two of them had never been particularly close, and his father was an unlikely source of help for him, after they had fallen out when John and Sherlock had... He shook his head slightly, not wishing to get sidetracked at that moment.

But he could have moved back to be with his mum - she would have taken him in, or at least helped out so he didn't need a flatshare. Maybe he didn't want to rely on her, or maybe...

"Your mother has passed away."

John looked away. Sherlock panicked, thinking he might have overstepped a line, but then he turned back, and there was a wetness around his eyes, making Sherlock want to approach him, hold him and comfort him so badly his whole body ached. But he knew he couldn't. Not yet, anyway.

"Four years ago. Four years ago today, actually."

Sherlock ignored the hint at an anniversary. Such sentimentality. Why did it matter what date it was? A loved one had died, it made no difference how keenly the loss was felt depending on what day it was. However...

"Today?"

John nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Yes. Something wrong?"

Sherlock could feel himself going white - whiter than normal, anyway. "I... I went to see her, John. Four years ago... today."

John shifted his weight, leaning on the bench in front of him, and his eyes burned. "What did you say to her?"

The realisation that John thought Sherlock must have upset her, and somehow caused her death, flooded him. A brief fluttering of betrayal, almost immediately compounded by his own feelings of grief. Jane Watson had loved him, almost as much as she'd loved John. He knew that. She had been a wonderful human being, who had given him so much support and care from such an early age. He was unused to the emotion that consumed him, and felt suddenly faint, feeling for the bench behind him and clinging onto it desperately.

He was aware that John was still watching him, anger still evident, but also concern in his face, glancing down to where his fingers gripped the bench.

"I didn't upset her," Sherlock whispered. "At least, I'm pretty sure I didn't. I asked her to tell you that I..."

John quirked an eyebrow. "That you what, Sherlock?"

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. "That I missed you."

He nodded, seemingly not surprised. "And what was her response?"

"I don't know. I left as I said it. I panicked. I had to get out. There was too much _emotion..."_

A bitter, tired laugh. "Yeah, well, that was always your problem wasn't it Sherlock? Couldn't handle the emotion. Couldn't deal with perfectly normal human reactions. Had to resort to-"

"John, please," Sherlock said, interrupting him. "I know what my problems are, what they were, and what a frankly dreadful human being I am. I don't need you to spell it out for me."

"No, you probably fucking don't," John snapped. "You don't need me at all, do you? You never have done. Quite content to piss the last 16 years of your life away without me by your side, weren't you? Never a thought for what poor old John was up to, whether he was getting blown to bits in god knows where. No, you three were quite happy to get on with your fucking perfect lives and pretend I never existed!"

Sherlock gasped, the words hitting him like painful stings to his soul, watching as the closest friend he had ever had fell apart in front of him. He'd made a mistake. He'd got something wrong. Jane had said...

"Your mum said you still loved me," he said tentatively, as the rage dissipated, as John's figure finally slumped into a chair, as he clutched his cane and buried his face into the hands gripping tightly onto it. "She said you were okay, but I... I devastated you. I hoped she would pass on my message. I had hoped that you would contact me. When you didn't, I presumed you had moved on, and I didn't wish to intrude on your life."

John didn't say anything, his head still bent, his shoulders shaking slightly.

"I didn't attempt to contact you before then because I wanted to be clean. I wanted to have completely ridden myself of the drugs that caused our relationship to crumble. It took me that long, John. It probably would have been over much quicker if I'd had you by my side," he said unthinkingly.

It prompted a reaction though... which was what he needed, really. Something to work off of.

"You utter bastard."

His head raised, and Sherlock could feel the anger boiling just beneath the surface. He shrank back, trying to prepare himself for the onslaught.

"YOU crumbled our relationship, Sherlock! YOU ended things with me because you panicked! I came back the next day, hoping you would have calmed down and seen sense, but no! No one would let me see you, you'd buggered off to destination unknown, and I tried _so damned hard _to find you. I went back constantly, I begged, I even got to know your fucking parents in my efforts - something I'd never managed to do in the previous fifteen years - I wanted you back so fucking badly, Sherlock. And then you have the gall to try and make me feel guilty for not being by your side while you were coming off the drugs?!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was drowned out.

"I wanted to be there, Sherlock! I so desperately wanted to be there for you! I fucking loved you! You were my best friend, my partner, the only person I truly cared about aside from my mother, and I was terrified I was going to lose you to drugs, but instead, I lost you to your fucking insecurities and your fucking determination that you are always right about everything, you know best and I know fuck all about what's best for me, for us..." He trailed off, looking away, his face red with rage and upset, his eyes now swimming with tears. The lab felt so cold, so unforgiving, and Sherlock shivered, his heart pounding and his head... his head was a mess. An absolute and utter mess.

"You ruined everything," John whispered. "We could have got through it. I would have helped you, Sherlock, you know I would."

And Sherlock felt his knees go weak as he realised that yes, John would have helped him. He really would have been there for him, if he'd just let him. He screwed his eyes shut as his mind finally opened enough to allow him to see just what he'd thrown away. Everything that could have been, and now never would be. It was too late.

Wasn't it?

"John..." he began carefully, waiting to see if he would be interrupted. He wasn't, so he continued. "Why don't you come and look at this flat with me?"

A look of utter astonishment. To be expected.

"I don't imagine you would ever even begin to think of moving in with me." Sherlock chose his words carefully. "But... it's slightly more comfortable to argue in than this laboratory."

This was the test, he thought, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he watched John's face, contorting in confusion. If he agreed, then yes, they'd go back to the flat and they'd scream, and shout, and John would probably punch him, and Sherlock would apologise as best he could (saying sorry had never come naturally to him, even when, as in this case, he was absolutely, definitely in the wrong). Mrs Hudson would probably try to intervene. The neighbours would probably complain.

But if he said no, then that would mean he no longer cared enough to fight. And that would be intolerable, but understandable. And they would go their separate ways, and that truly would be it.

He continued to watch John, praying to whoever was listening that John still cared.

John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's, and he could have sworn there was a glimmer of a twinkle there.

"Does this place have a kettle?"

* * *

The woman - Sherlock's landlady - was chattering away to him, words that he was barely registering as he surveyed the living room, full of mess, as to be expected. Paperwork everywhere, photos pinned to the wall - was that a skull? - and books. Books, everywhere. He noted the beloved violin in the corner of the room, and smiled fondly to himself for a second, wiping it away before Sherlock noticed.

"There's another bed upstairs, if you'll be needing two rooms."

John coughed, but didn't respond. He noted the confused look on Sherlock's face - he would have recognised that John's lack of response could be either good or bad.

There was an old worn armchair, looking rather comfortable, and John stared rather longingly at it. He could imagine himself sitting in that chair, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, chatting, laughing, arguing about something. Then he shook his head. Two hours ago, he was contemplating a rather lonely, pathetic existence in the arse-end of nowhere, having lost everyone dear to him. Now he was standing in a flat with the only man he had ever loved, a man who had practically abandoned him for sixteen years, and yet he appeared to be seriously contemplating moving in with him. The absurdity made him snort with laughter, and he held onto his cane harder as nervous energy erupted from him in the form of guffaws, alarming the old lady.

"Dr Watson, are you alright?" She cast a nervous look at Sherlock, who was observing him coolly, one eyebrow raised. "Sherlock, is he okay?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "He'll be fine, Mrs Hudson. Make us a cup of tea, would you?"

She tutted, still eyeing John worriedly, but she appeared to have been comforted by Sherlock's indifference. "Just this once dears, I'm not your housekeeper."

She bustled into the kitchen, and Sherlock glanced again at John, who had finally managed to pull himself together and stop laughing. He motioned to the armchair, and John gratefully took him up on the invitation, sinking into the comfortable old chair and unable to help the sigh that escaped his lips.

"We should probably hold off any heated discussions until Mrs Hudson leaves us to it," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "I don't think you'd appreciate her interference."

John shook his head slightly, staring up at the ceiling. "This is ridiculous, Sherlock," he said quietly. "How am I even considering this?"

His dark-haired... friend?... couldn't stop the smile that danced across his face, and John caught it as he lowered his head again. "Because you're attracted to danger?"

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"And so am I. You invaded Afghanistan-"

"Not just me, there were a few of us."

"Irrelevant. You signed up, you went out there, you only came home when you got shot. Let's go back further - you followed me around like a lovesick puppy for years-"

"I hardly think that's fair, I seem to remember you being the lovesick one for a lot of the time."

"Will you PLEASE stop interrupting me when I'm trying to make a point, John?!"

John bit his top lip, scraping his teeth down the skin, and then smiled slightly. "Sorry."

The intensity, the tension between them - he couldn't ignore it. Anyone else might argue that sixteen years should have been more than enough time to kill the feeling between the pair of them, to diminish the yearning, to extinguish any ideas of romantic or sexual attachment between them. And yet there it was, both of them so much older - but probably no wiser, John thought ruefully - but still so... it was as if they'd seen each other last week. Last night. Earlier that morning. It was like they'd never been apart, in many ways.

He so badly wanted to just forget the last sixteen years. Just erase it. He had a vague recollection of Sherlock being able to delete information, things he felt he no longer needed. That's what he wished they could both do - forget that they had been apart for so long, that there was so much angst, so much pain, so much hurt. He didn't want to argue with him. He just wanted him, he realised with a shock. He really didn't want to fight, but not because he didn't care. He just needed to be happy again.

And the only way he was going to be happy - truly happy - was with this utter nutter.

John sank back in his chair as a mixture of relief, realisation and hope flooded through him. He didn't care about trying to hide what he was feeling from Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock had carried on talking, explaining his point, but he didn't need to. Yes, John was attracted to danger, he'd always known this. But, more than anything, he was attracted to Sherlock, and it seemed he always would be.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

"You need to say sorry."

Sherlock blinked at him. Mrs Hudson snorted from the kitchen - even _she _knew this never happened. Was she even aware of their history, of who he was in relation to her tenant?

John looked back, amused. "Well?"

He took a deep breath, glanced back over his shoulder to see Mrs Hudson approaching them with their tea. "I get the feeling you boys need a little heart-to-heart about something," she said, smiling kindly at John. "I'll leave you be just now, dears." She patted Sherlock fondly on the shoulder, shooting him a look that John could easily read as 'Don't mess this up!', and then she was gone.

He turned back to John.

"Does it have to be overflowing with sentimentality, with emotion, with metaphorical statements of how my heart is full of the pain of a thousand-"

"No," John interrupted him. "Nothing fancy, nothing ridiculous, nothing that'll make my brain hurt with your intellect and ability to construct a beautiful but meaningless sonnet about how dreadfully full of sorrow you are. I just want you, to tell me, that you are sorry."

Sherlock nodded, and then crouched directly in front of John, taking both his hands in his and gazing intently up at him. John gulped as he felt that familiar stare overwhelm him, and almost make him forget what he was supposed to be doing.

"John... Hamish... Watson. I am so, so fucking sorry."

* * *

Mrs Turner sipped her coffee. "So those two are an item, are they?"

Mrs Hudson shrugged. "I only know what Sherlock's brother told me. You know, that nice man who visits every now and then. Only, Sherlock doesn't seem overly fond of him... but that's Sherlock for you, I guess."

"And what did he tell you?" Mrs Turner asked inquisitively.

"That John Watson was the only person who Sherlock had ever loved, and the only person who he ever would love."

* * *

They had argued. Of course they had. Despite John's sudden urge to pretend the last sixteen years hadn't happened, he had found himself shouting, reliving moments that he would never have endured were it not for Sherlock's sodding obstinacy. Sherlock had taken it all, willingly, seeming almost pleased to bear the brunt of John's anguish, and had sat quietly while John had railed at him. Anyone looking in would think that he didn't care, but they would be so very wrong. Sherlock had nothing to be angry with John about, and accepted, totally, that he had been completely in the wrong.

Sherlock had received a message from Molly, and another from Mary, who had obviously been informed of the proceedings. Both were swiftly replied to with a "_Don't worry, everything is fine. SH_" and he heard nothing else, grateful that his friends were leaving them to it.

The conversation/row/screaming match lasted well into the evening, til John felt spent and Sherlock felt very aware of all of his shortcomings. They still hadn't touched, other than Sherlock's apology, but both felt cleansed, in a way. John was now on the sofa, lying back, looking tired. Sherlock sat back in the other armchair, watching him thoughtfully, feeling unable to believe that finally, John was here, with him. They still had a lot to work through, but for the first time in nearly two decades, Sherlock felt something resembling hope pumping through his veins.

John's eyes were drifting shut. Sherlock crept through to his bedroom, retrieving a blanket, before creeping back through and laying it gently over his friend. He touched his forehead briefly, unable to stop himself, and could feel the warmth emanating from him. He was there. He really was, finally there.

Resisting the urge to bend down and kiss him goodnight, Sherlock returned to his bedroom, deciding that, for once, he would attempt to get a proper sleep. He had a feeling he would need as much energy as possible for another round of talking tomorrow. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his clothing, sighing deeply as he considered how the day had gone. Much better than he'd anticipated when he'd arrived at Barts earlier, that was for sure.

Sinking into his bed, he rubbed his hand across his face, staring at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. He didn't hear the footsteps approaching his bedroom door. He didn't hear the creak of the door as it opened. He only became aware of John's presence when he heard a light cough, and, startled, he sat bolt upright and stared at his friend.

"I...err... I've gone sixteen years without seeing you," John said, and Sherlock detected the nervousness in his voice. "I can't bear to go another night. Not yet, anyway."

Wordlessly, Sherlock shifted back across the pillows and lifted the covers. John smiled, a warm, relieved smile, and slipped into the bed beside him -fully clothed, but Sherlock happily accepted that. He didn't know what to do with himself, didn't want to scare John, and watched him, terrified, before that face that he had missed so much turned to him, still grinning, and opened his arms hesitantly.

"Come here?"

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so much happiness from hearing just two completely innocuous words and, with a quick look to check that this really was okay, he laid down beside John, unable to help himself curling up around him. John's arm that Sherlock had laid on wound round and his hand was on Sherlock's bicep, gently stroking the skin. He twisted onto his side so that his other arm could embrace him, holding him close, and Sherlock finally wept, burying his face into John's chest. He wept for the lost years, he wept for all the hurt and pain he had caused... and he wept because he was finally, amazingly, back in John's arms.

* * *

**Next chapter will be the last (unless I decide to do an epilogue-y thing) and there will be *ahem* some action. But only T-rated, I'm not brave enough to stray into M-related stuff just yet. But I promise some fluff and some happy times. Hooray! Thank you all for sticking with this, the last chapter might not be posted as quickly as the others have as I always struggle a bit with those sorts of scenes, but I shall do my utmost to get it posted in the next few days. I appreciate the reviews/favourites/follows so very, very much and am definitely not averse to receiving a few more ;) Much love. E x**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hello! This is the final chapter, and the end of writing something that I've really enjoyed working on, and I hope you've all enjoyed it too. Special thanks have to go to TheVenturer, who is an absolute sweetheart and a brilliant reviewer, and also to AntiHeroLydia and leetah . evee (it wouldn't let me type your name as one word, no idea why!) who are regular and lovely reviewers. But thank you to everyone who had read, reviewed, favourited, followed and enjoyed this. I hope this final chapter is to your liking. I may well end up writing a sequel, but it will be a separate story and won't happen any time soon.**

**Warning - major fluffy Johnlock. Squee!**

* * *

_September 14__th__, 2011_

Sometimes, even now, one year later, John had to pinch himself to check that he wasn't dreaming, that this really was his life – here, in London, in this flat, living with Sherlock and surrounded by all his old school friends. Going out for dinner with Molly and Greg. Having coffee with Mary. Popping downstairs for a chat and a cake with his landlady. Working at the local surgery, as a GP – a fulfilling and enjoyable job, at the same practice that Mary worked at as a nurse, which was also brilliant – and _solving crimes with his lover on the side._

That last one got him the most. Living with Sherlock, the only man he'd ever loved, the person he had thought he'd never see again, would have been enough. Loving him again would have been the icing on the cake. But living, loving and working with him was sometimes too much for him to compute. He had gone through hell and back to get to this point, he knew that, but he couldn't help but accept that it was all worth it, despite how furious he had been this time last year. His life was perfect in an imperfect way, and he couldn't have asked for anything else.

He'd always known that Sherlock's brilliant brain would be put to good use in some way, and it turned out that solving cases for Special Branch was where his talents lay, as well as helping out his brother, who, unsurprisingly, "occupied a minor role in the British Government". There were some things, Sherlock had informed John, that even MI5 were not to be trusted with.

Greg, now a DI, had originally managed to allow him access to cold cases, and slowly but surely he'd wormed his way into Scotland Yard, to the point where even the sergeants who really could not stand him knew that they would not cope without him and his mad genius ways. John came in at this point, and got to know who the nice guys were – Greg and, after one particular case, DI Dimmock – and who not to trust. Sergeant Donovan had a real bee in her bonnet about Sherlock, but even she admitted on several occasions, in John's hearing, that the force would crumble without Sherlock Holmes and his faithful sidekick. Philip Anderson had not been Sherlock's biggest fan, but after a few months of John's presence making Sherlock somewhat friendlier – and by friendlier, he reduced his amount of insults towards the police from daily to weekly – he had grown to respect and admire the consulting detective.

Molly, as always, was completely submissive to Sherlock's demands to retrieve corpses for him, carry out whatever tests he needed doing that he couldn't be bothered to do himself, and often ended up fetching him coffee as well, just like the day that John and Sherlock had been reunited. It annoyed Greg and frustrated John, in a way, but both Molly and Sherlock seemed comfortable in the friendship they had, Molly never seeming to expect anything in return other than the odd, awkwardly-given compliment, and John could tell that, despite her teenage infatuation with the dark-haired git, Greg had nothing to worry about now.

John smirked to himself as he relaxed on the sofa, one hand idly brushing through Sherlock's wild hair, his partner resting his head in John's lap, eyes closed and looking rather relaxed. They had had a difficult few weeks recently, dealing with an adversary of Sherlock's who John knew would be back, at some point, trying to disrupt their lives again, but for now there was peace and quiet, another case had been solved in relation to a _rather delicate matter, _as Mycroft had put it, and Sherlock was happy to spend some time not focussing on cases or police work, but in the comfort of his own home, with John by his side, doing nothing in particular. It was very rare that he was willing to switch off for very long, and John intended to savour the time they had together without any outside distractions.

* * *

He was, he decided, as he nuzzled into the feeling of John's fingers threading through his hair, possibly the luckiest man in the world. 366 days ago, he felt like the unhappiest, unluckiest, unworthiest – was that even a word? Well, it was now, he decided.

Then John Watson had walked back into his life again – complete with a cane and a face full of the strain that the previous sixteen years had placed upon him. And Sherlock had taken complete and utter responsibility for that pain and suffering that he had gone through. At the time, he'd thought he was doing John a favour. He had sacrificed his own happiness in the absolute certainty that John would move on, meet someone else and be far happier than Sherlock could ever have made him.

That day, one year ago, it had taken a swift look to see that he had been a colossal idiot, and Mrs Watson, God love her, had been absolutely spot on.

"We really were made for each other," Sherlock had whispered one night, curled up around John's spine. "Why was I such a fool?"

John had laughed. "A fool in love is a dangerous thing," he'd said, pulling the covers tightly over the pair of them.

It had been difficult in a way, accepting that he had been wrong. He wasn't often wrong, and this particular acceptance was made all the more painful, knowing that he had wasted sixteen years that they could have been together. But, he tried to reason with himself, maybe it was meant to be this way. They'd had to go through what they did, to realise how much they meant to each other. It sounded like the sort of poetic nonsense that John would come out with, but it rang true in an odd way.

He shifted slightly on the sofa, pondering over another point that John had made. This date, the 14th September, had featured so heavily in their lives. Sherlock didn't really believe in fate – despite his previous, disgustingly sentimental notion – but he had to admit that it was a huge coincidence. John had been a little dazzled by it, and had kept insisting that it must mean something, but Sherlock had dismissed it as rubbish, whilst filing it away in his Mind Palace. He glanced at the calendar, double (or was it triple?) checking – it definitely was the 14th today – and struggled up into a seated position.

"I guess this is some sort of anniversary for us," he muttered, feigning a yawn to hide the awkwardness he felt at mentioning something that sounded so preposterous to him. But when he stole a glance at John, he was glad he had, as the smile that lit up his boyfriend's face was completely worth it.

"The anniversary of what?" John grinned. "Us meeting? The first night we slept in the same bed? Our first kiss – it's kinda weird that those two things happened the wrong way round, in my head anyway."

Sherlock laughed – a deep, throaty reverberation that tugged at John's stomach, and he reached out and grabbed his hand, suddenly looking rather earnest.

"Please, just tell me we're not celebrating the anniversary of my mother's death, because that's a little macabre, even for you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Don't be ridiculous, John," he said, squeezing his hand a little, knowing that her untimely passing still deeply affected him. "Your mother was a wonderful woman and possibly the only adult in my childhood who genuinely cared for me. Why on earth would I want to celebrate her death?"

John gave him a half smile, and then sat back a little in the sofa, expecting Sherlock to curl up into him, and looking a little surprised when he didn't. "Were you wanting to do anything in particular to celebrate this rather odd date in our lives then?" he asked, confused.

It wasn't often that the consulting detective was lost for words. He swallowed, hard, realising that he hadn't even considered how he was going to go about this. He'd thought about the event itself, but the lead-up to it was a complete mystery. His brain scrabbled, frantically, for something. Anything to relieve this awkward silence.

"I never know what to call you," he blurted out.

"Well, 'John' would be a good start," the doctor chuckled. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know what I mean!" Sherlock said, jumping up and beginning to pace up and down. John frowned, folding his arms as he watched him, and pursed his lips, wondering what on earth had got into the man who, two minutes ago, was happily snuggling into his lap, looking rather contented.

"No Sherlock, I really don't," he said.

He fell back onto the sofa. "When I'm talking about you, to other people – not that that happens very often, most people are aware of who you are in relation to me – but _it does happen, _John. What do I call you? My lover? That sounds a little too much for polite conversation-"

"When do you _ever _indulge in 'polite conversation'?" John spluttered, and was shot an angry look.

"-My boyfriend," Sherlock continued. "Sounds rather childish, and 'partner' could mean a whole manner of things, and in our case I guess it does, so you see, John, there are plenty of chances for embarrassment or confusion and..."

"Okay, okay, calm down," John said, stroking his arm reassuringly. "It's really not that big a deal, Sherlock. I doubt people give it much thought really. Partner does just fine for me."

There was a pause, and Sherlock breathed in deeply, slightly annoyed that John hadn't seemed to figure out where he was going with this. He had hoped that it would have been guessed, that he wouldn't have to go through the rigmarole of it all, but once again John's deductive skills had proven woeful at best.

"I was thinking... husband," he whispered, staring at his hands, and he felt John's hand on his arm stop suddenly.

"P-pardon?" John said, again spluttering the words out, but not in mirth this time.

Sherlock raised his eyes to his, and was briefly relieved to see that John didn't look horrified at the suggestion. General shock, however, was blatantly evident on his face.

"Husband. It's a much clearer word than partner, and much more grown up than 'boyfriend' or 'lover', don't you think?"

"But... we're not married, Sherlock," John whispered, and Sherlock groaned, clenching his eyes shut.

"John, must I really spell it out?"

He opened his eyes and noticed that the mirth was back, in full force, and John's eyes were practically sparkling – in happiness, but there was also a tiny bit of the devil lurking in there too.

"I really think you might have to, love."

Sherlock groaned again. "I'm not getting down on one knee."

"Never said you had to."

"And you are going to say yes? You're not going to make me look like a complete idiot?"

John shrugged. "Who knows? I don't know what the question is yet."

"John Watson, I am going to kill-"

"But I'm pretty sure that's not how it starts."

Sherlock inhaled, then stuck his hand into his trouser pocket, feeling for and producing very quickly a small case that easily sat in his hand, and noticed with unadulterated glee the shocked look that passed over John's face. So he hadn't been expecting a ring, then.

"John... Hamish..."

"I hate you."

"...Watson," he grinned, opening the case. "Will you please allow me to marry you in a ceremony entirely of your choosing, because I hate planning that sort of thing, and be my husband?"

* * *

"What on EARTH was that?" asked Mrs Turner, nearly dropping her mug of tea as a rather loud shout was heard from upstairs, followed by something that sounded very much like a roar.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes. "Sherlock was going to propose to John tonight," she said, bustling over to the cupboard to get them both some biscuits. "I honestly thought he'd chicken out – he's not the romantic sort, you know." She raised her eyes skywards as they heard the banging of a door and laughter echoing through the floorboards. "But it appears I was wrong."

Mrs Turner eyed the ceiling too, then glanced at her friend. "That's their bedroom above us, isn't it?" she said.

Mrs Hudson nodded. "Fancy a night at the bingo, dear?"

* * *

Two hours later, John laid back in the bed with a thump, listening to the sound of the en-suite shower. He was tempted to go and join his fiancé, but decided he couldn't be bothered to get out of bed at that moment. His mind was swirling with the events of that evening, and he still couldn't quite process it. He had never expected Sherlock to propose. Of course, he'd hoped. He'd been hoping since pretty soon after they moved in together, but he'd never wanted to push it, which was why he hadn't done the deed himself. He grinned to himself, pure ecstasy filling him from within, and turned onto his side, staring at the empty space beside him.

The noise of the shower came to an abrupt stop and, thirty seconds later, Sherlock appeared in the doorway, rubbing his hair dry. John stared at him, still unable to believe that this was actually happening, that they were together and they were going to get married, and that this gorgeous creature stood before him was going to be his husband. Sherlock eyed him, and a delicious smile appeared on his face.

"Your eyes are going to pop out of your head if you keep that up."

"Don't be ridiculous," John retorted. "I can stare at you whenever I like, for however long I like."

"Well, I won't complain," Sherlock replied, casting off the towel and sliding into bed next to John. He gazed at him questioningly, then glanced towards the shower. "Isn't it your turn?"

John smiled and reached out, running a finger down the side of Sherlock's face, before moving in towards him and nuzzling into his shoulder. "I don't think I deserve you," he whispered.

"Oh no, you absolutely do." Sherlock leaned back, and then ghosted a kiss onto John's forehead. "If anything, I don't deserve you."

John grinned. "Well, if we're in agreement that neither of us deserve the other, but we're quite happy with that, then let's move on." He sat up slightly so that he could reach Sherlock's lips, kissing gently at first, tasting him, before deepening the kiss, Sherlock's hand moving up to steady John's head and hold onto him tightly. John flicked his tongue against Sherlock's, eliciting a low moan, before running it along his bottom lip and biting down gently. He felt himself unconsciously buck against the detective's thigh, and groaned as he felt Sherlock's hand run slowly up his own leg.

"You can't be ready to go again?" Sherlock whispered against John's mouth, and John could feel the smile. "I hate to break it to you, but I'm exhausted."

John shook his head, their noses rubbing together, before giving him another quick peck on the lips. "I genuinely think I could just kiss you all night," he said. "Nothing else needed – not that I wouldn't want to, of course – but our lips and my hands in your hair. I do quite love your hair, you know."

"I've noticed," Sherlock grinned. "And I quite love you playing with my hair. We really are a good match. Now go shower please, Dr Watson, and then we may resume our kissing session if you so wish."

John glanced at him as he hopped out of bed. "Do _you _so wish?" he queried, eyes searching him quickly.

"Oh, absolutely."

* * *

**For the last time, please review, and thank you so much for reading :) xx**


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